


Because I Chose To Be Who I Was

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Written before season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was good, after he'd spent three years dead, after he'd returned. He had his old life back, and John at his side. And then Sherlock was consulted on a case, Harry Watson turned out to be a suspect, and loyalties were tested, in a way they never were before. Post-Reunion. Written before series 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

And the wheel of fortune turned again.

Maybe that's how Sherlock would have described it, had he had any preference for corny poetry. But at the start, he didn't even know what was happening. All he knew was that things had finally come back to normal – normal for his life, that is. John had forgiven him – forgiven him rather quickly, too, though that was probably due to the fact that as soon as Sherlock reappeared in his life, the limp had decided to vanish for good – and they were back at 221B. Mrs. Hudson was still force-feeding him and, now and then, hugged him, "just because". Greg still called them in – even more often than before... everything, and spent quite a lot of his time at their flat when they didn't have a case, to "catch up" as he put it. Molly gave him body parts, Mike Stamford shoved picture of his little boy David Sherlock in his face whenever he could, and Mycroft was as arrogant and annoying as ever, though their bickering tended to be rather friendly these days.

All in all, life was good, especially since he'd talked to John about the things he'd seen and done in the three years of hiding. Ever since then, the nightmares had disappeared, and the memories didn't inset themselves anymore in his everyday life. Sherlock was rather... happy, to be honest.

And then Greg called them in on a crime scene in a part of town well-known for its clubs. The victim had most likely been killed the night before, but only been discovered at seven pm the following evening – today – because she had been hidden beneath the trash in a rather dark alleyway that not many people frequented.

Of course John came with him – he'd given up any work shortly after Sherlock reappeared, and decided that he'd be his "full-time PA" from now on. The consulting detective had nothing against it, really.  
So they took a cab and arrived at the crime scene shortly thereafter.

The victim was a woman in her early thirties; she was bleached blonde and wore a far too short dress for early march. She had been strangled; there were ligature marks around her neck, but – she'd also been stabbed, and judging from the little amount of blood that was in the street, even though she'd clearly been killed here – no bloodspots little to or from the street, so she hadn't been carried – it had been post-mortem, almost as if the killer wanted to... penetrate her in some way. Her nails were painted in a rather bright shade of orange, which John instantly recognized. "Sherlock? Not many shops that sell these paint in London". Greg looked at John and raised an eyebrow. "Is there something you want to tell us, John?"

"Shut up, Greg" the doctor answered good-naturedly, "It's Harry's favourite nail polish. It's the best gift to get her when you don't know what to buy".

Harry had given up alcohol for good after Sherlock's supposed death, and John and her seemed to get on quite well nowadays. Sherlock had even met her, two months ago, but that hadn't ended to well.

He'd tried, he'd tried for John to be polite. He really had. All John had done was invite her to tea in their flat, and he could stay polite for a few hours. But – But – as soon as he saw her, he was aware that she was living far from monogamous, had obviously slept with another woman just the night before, in fact. A woman she most likely didn't know and couldn't remember the name off. Even if Sherlock understood what compelled people to have sex, he was rather certain he'd never just go out and have it with absolute strangers.

So, when the sister of his best friend started complaining about her newest ex-girlfriend, how she'd left her, he'd told her, because he couldn't hold it back, that she obviously wasn't angry that her girlfriend had left her, but that her lover had had enough of her polygamous lifestyle, because her girlfriend was working in a shop, but the necklace Harry was wearing was rather expensive, so the lover obviously had a far better-paid job. And when she'd started screaming, well, he'd shot back that it wasn't his problem if she had to sleep with any woman that she saw.

She'd left then, and John had barely spoken to Sherlock for three days, because – "She is my sister, Sherlock. And she was a great help to me when you were... gone. And she is off the booze. I know you couldn't help it, but – Sherlock, how about I tell you when she comes by the next time and you two never see each other again?" Sherlock had whole-heartedly agreed to that plan, as had Harry, apparently, because now and then, every two weeks or so, John told him she'd be coming for tea, and he'd go to St Bart's or to Greg's (who never complained, because, as he told John once, only half-joking, "You are aware that I get to see Sherlock far more seldom than you, right? That's not fair – We have shared custody, after all"). Of course, he could still tell by the traces she left – the smell of perfume, the marks of her shoes on the carpet – that she still slept with other women whenever she can, even though she apparently had a new girlfriend, or so John told him. But he kept his deductions to himself; John was too important to him to risk their friendship over his lesbian sister. If it made John happy to talk to her over a cup of tea, so be it. There was always Greg, there were always experiments.

But that wasn't important now. What was important was the case – and the victim.

Sherlock kneeled down next to her and scrutinized the victim. Unmarried – in fact... He slowly lifted her dress over her hip (and a disgusted sniff behind him told him that Anderson had arrived, most likely with Donavan trailing behind him, oh joy; but at least they never were that annoying these days – Greg tended to be... rather angry when they abused Sherlock in front of him, ever since the consulting detective "died").  
He'd been right; her hips were sore, so she must have worn something that rubbed because it moved...

"She's a lesbian" he announced, "she seems to enjoy the more... active part of sexual intercourse. She wears a strap-on quite regularly."

He could hear Anderson starting to say something that sounded like "And how would you..." but then the forensic tech trailed off, most likely because Greg had given him a dangerous glare.

"Other than that... Well, her sex partners change quite frequently, she is a professional person, she is –"

He saw something on her neck. "She's most likely a lawyer – or has something else to do with the law".

"How do you know that? Do lawyers have any special feature?" John asked, rather astonished. "Do they dress differently when they go clubbing or what?"

"Her necklace" Sherlock said, slowly lifting it with his index finger. "Look at it".

Greg did so, frowning; one of these days, Sherlock would have to tell him that he needed glasses, but the DI would probably not appreciate that in front of his team, so he said nothing.

"Well, it's gold – " his DI said, while Sherlock waited patiently, and John, who'd of course realized that Greg's eyes weren't what they used to be, winked at his best friend behind Lestrade's back.

"Yes, Greg. Well done: Gold, and what else?"

He looked confused, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The pendant, Greg".

"Oh right" he answered and pretended to have seen it before this moment. "Mmh, looks like two S intertwined... Any chance her name starts with S?"

"No. That's a "Paragraph" – in German-speaking countries, like Austria for example, they are used to signify an article – article one of a law would be "Paragraph eins" in German. She probably has an LLM, acquired in one of those countries. Now, naturally, she could have gone on a holiday there, and just thought the symbol pretty, but that's not very likely – normally, you have to search for jewellery that shows which profession the wearer belongs to. So I think it's safe to say she has a job that requires a certain knowledge of law – and, let's face it, with this jewellery, lawyer is the most likely."

"Fantastic" John said, eyes sparkling, and Sherlock smiled at him.

"Good, then – so a lesbian, and a lawyer, and – " Greg stopped, suddenly.

"There's a lesbian bar not far from here".

"Really?" Sherlock asked, once again negatively surprised at the fact that London had changed during his absence. Though he had, by now, memorized most of the changes, sometimes he still had to rely on John and on Greg – which didn't seem as awful to him as it would have, once upon a time, but was rather annoying, when he wanted to figure something out as fast as possible. Which was always.

"Yes, I think – two streets from here? Let's go check it out – it should be open by now" Greg replied, looking at his watch. "It's past nine pm".

"I'll go with you. John?"

"Why do you even ask, Sherlock?" John answered, already turning in the direction Greg had indicated.

"Because someone is constantly pressing me to be polite" was all Sherlock said, as he followed Greg, John trailing behind him.

The lesbian bar was elegantly decorated; thankfully, there weren't many patrons around yet, so they could ask the barmaid a few questions without causing too much of a sensation.

She was a redhead, attractive judging by the way John and Greg looked at her. Sherlock let Greg ask the questions – people usually didn't appreciate him just shoving a picture of a dead person under their noses and demanding answers. And the DI knew by now what Sherlock wanted to know.

The barmaid was thankfully not prone to hysterics and immediately, as soon as she had seen the picture, said, "Yes, she was here, yesterday, until about... one o' clock I'd say, before she got chatted up by a brunette and left with her."

She didn't have much more to tell them, sadly, even though Greg tried his best. But then, just as they were preparing to leave, Sherlock had an idea. Or a hunch. Or both.

"Excuse me, but did you happen to see the victim's nails yesterday?"

"Her nails?" the barmaid answered, looking confused.

"Yes – was she wearing any nail polish?"

For a moment, he thought his hunch hadn't paid off, because she started shaking her head, but then she exclaimed – "Wait. Wait. I remember that she wasn't wearing any nail polish, and I realized that because I thought "She's so well groomed, weird that her nails shouldn't be painted in any way, especially because – " she stopped.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted, excitement buzzing through him, but staying calm because he was really trying to be polite these days, even though it was difficult not to tell the barmaid that her partner was cheating on her with her best (male) friend.

"Because the brunette had her nails painted orange. Quite a weird colour, actually".

"This one?" Sherlock asked, showing her the photo he'd taken of the victim's nails.

"Yes, exactly!" she almost shouted, quite happy to help the police, apparently.

They thanked her and went out.

"Nothing more to do for us here... Greg, please get the forensic evidence to St Bart's as soon as possible".

"Of course" Greg answered, shooting Sherlock a worried look. "Everything alright?"

"Perfectly, thank you. Come, John".

In the cab, John asked him if he was alright too. "Just now, in the bar, you looked like you had found a lead – and then you turned silent. You never turn silent, the only case I ever – " he swallowed, and Sherlock knew he remembered Moriarty's last stand. "Anyway, that's over now. So, what's going on?"

"Nothing, John, I just have a headache – maybe I didn't eat enough in the last few days".

John still looked sceptical, and murmured "You never eat enough", but left it at that.

So Sherlock was left to his thoughts, and they were far from pleasant.

How he wished it wouldn't all fit so well.

The killer...

Polygamous.

Orange nail polish that didn't belong to her.

Killed by a woman.

That had chatted her up in a lesbian bar, apparently.

Harry Watson...

Polygamous.

Her favourite nail polish on the victim.

Lesbian.

Frequenting lesbian bars – John had told him about that ages ago.

So, all in all –

A very good suspect.


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock later thought, he should have let it go.

After all, he had solved more than enough cases at this point, and most people still felt bad enough after believing Moriarty's story, that one unsolved case wouldn't have been bad for his reputation.

But – he needed to solve this case. He'd always needed to solve every case that presented itself; it was in his very blood, in his very essence; it was the one thing he couldn't live without. That was the real reason he'd always wanted to become a detective (after he'd got over his pirate phase); not a police man, because even at ten, he hadn't been good with authority. Of course, he hadn't known then that the one thing that was missing – that emptiness somewhere in him that he had unsuccessfully tried to fill with drugs until he had stumbled upon Greg's crime scene – at his thirtieth birthday, no less. Of course, he'd only stumbled on it because he'd wanted to get closer – and was high. He hadn't realized until then, so much was true; but Mrs. Hudson's husband had given him his first clue, and when he'd seen the police tape –

Even during his three years of hunting, in his darkest moments, he'd never even thought about picking up another profession once he'd returned. No. Crime solving might have cost him much, but it gave him much in return too.

He just _needed_ it. He couldn't function properly without solving crimes. There was always this itch in the back of his mind, one he couldn't escape. Which was why, even after Mycroft had told him more times than he could remember (once he got clean and actually could remember the conversations he had with his brother) "You have the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, Sherlock. Surely one of these occupations would be far less dangerous than the one you have decided is the only one worth your attention?", he'd never even thought about doing something else.

So, no. He would stay on the case. So much was certain.

But, wait – he frowned, annoyed with himself, looking out the window of the cab, feeling John twitching nervously beside him.

He must have been blinded by his emotions once again – his affection and friendship for John (and his deep-rotted conviction that Harry didn't deserve her brother) taking over, not allowing him to think logical. Before Moriarty, he would have resented it; now he accepted it as part of the humanity he'd learned to cling to in those three lonely years.

But back to the case. The woman the victim had left the bar with was a brunette; Harry was a dirty blonde – true, her hair was of a somewhat darker colour than John's, but still, he didn't think that even in the dimmest light someone could call her "brunette". Unless she dyed her hair in the last two months or was wearing a wig... Sherlock tried to remember, but he couldn't recall whether he'd seen any hairs of Harry left in their flat. Then, again, if she had dyed them, they wouldn't look much different from his own hairs...

He was just devising a way of asking John as nonchalantly as possible about his sister (which proved rather difficult; lying to John had got more and more difficult ever since he returned), when his doctor decided to break the silence.

"Sherlock, I know something's bothering you. Greg knew something was bothering you even back at the crime scene. Please, don't tell me it's nothing again. What's going on?"

Sherlock turned his head and looked into John's eyes; he could see the worry in there, and something else the doctor tried to hide – he didn't feel comfortable when Sherlock didn't tell him everything that might even have remotely to do with a case, and it was easy to deduce why.

But, right now – Sherlock couldn't just tell John that he suspected his sister, not when the doctor had so easily given him back his trust and friendship even after he'd played dead for three years. Telling him that Harry might just be a murderer would be a "bit not good", Sherlock was certain. No, he needed proof. Or, more important: he needed to prove, if only to himself, that Harry was innocent. Then nobody else would ever hear about his short suspicion. Nobody and especially not John.

"It's probably "nothing" to you, but I was wrong before". When John looked at him, puzzled, Sherlock admitted "The "Paragraph" is used in the United States too, so – " He was actually a bit embarrassed at this, but relived when John chuckled.

"So, that's your problem? Of course, the great Sherlock Holmes can't forget something as important as that – but I forgive you. Wholeheartedly. And I'm sure Greg will too."

"Then I am relieved" Sherlock answered sarcastically, but not sharply, and John flashed him a quick grin before growing serious again. "So... am I right when I think you assume the killer is a woman?"

"So far everything points in this direction".

John raised an eyebrow. "A lesbian."

"Stab wounds inflicted after death are most likely a representation of the wish to violate or penetrate the victim in some way – if the killer wasn't simply stabbing her in a frenzy, and we can be sure this was not the case, because the cause of death was most definitely strangulation, I'm sure Molly's autopsy will prove that. So we know that the killer was sexually attracted to the victim. Could be a heterosexual male, but considering the victim was a lesbian and adding the fact that she left a lesbian bar most likely shortly before she was murdered in the company of another woman..."

"It is more likely that the killer is female" John finished. Sherlock nodded. John looked thoughtful. "So, basically, we're looking for a brunette woman in London. Even if you only count lesbians, I can't imagine that's a short list. Especially not when we don't even know that, for sure. She could have dyed her hair, or bleached it by now, or she could have worn a wig".

Sherlock grinned a little at that, because, apparently, Greg had been right when he'd told Sherlock during their last case, while John had been scrutinizing the victim in the morgue, "You know, Sherlock, it's kind of hard these days to tell which one of you is the consulting detective. Or, sorry – am I talking to John?"

"Is it getting a little bit hard to see straight, at your age, Inspector?" Sherlock had shot back, and they'd left it at that. But hearing John talk like this – it certainly sounded like words he could use...

Then he realized John was waiting for an answer. "I think that a wig is more likely, if brunette isn't her natural hair colour. I don't have enough data to be absolutely sure, but I believe that bleaching brunette hair blonde is far more common than bleaching brunette hair..."

"I can't say that, from experience. Harry dyed her hair brunette about a month ago".

And, just like that, Sherlock was suddenly rather happy that he had always been able to hide his feelings.

"She did?" he asked, sounding bored. "You didn't tell me".

"I would say I thought you'd be able to deduce it, but the truth is that I haven't thought about it, really. I'd rather not. She looks at least five years older." At Sherlock's glance, he added "No, I didn't tell her that. Despite what Greg says – don't look like that, you were in the same room as me – I haven't yet acquired all your bad habits."

"So you do agree you have acquired some of them?"

"Remember the last case? When I just forgot to eat for three days and only felt I was hungry after the suspect was in custody?"

Sherlock smiled his little half-smile, but his eyes were sparkling; their banter usually helped him in situations he didn't particularly care to be in, like this one – suspecting Harry of a murder – and this time was no exception.

"Yes, I remember it. If we continue to train you, we might make you forget to sleep too, in a while."

John sighed exasperated, but with a certain fondness. "You know, that's not really what I – "

At that moment, the cab stopped in front of St Bart's. They – meaning Sherlock – paid and went in search for Molly.

She was in the lab.

"Hello Molly" John greeted her politely, while Sherlock said, as nice as possible, just "Molly".

"Oh, hello, John – Sherlock" she answered. "Is this about your new case? Greg – I mean DI Lestrade – just called". She coloured a little at the use of Greg's first name, and Sherlock happily deduced that her crush on him had apparently been transferred on someone else. He didn't need it, these days, anyway; ever since she helped him fake his death and to return, they had become friends. They helped each other regularly with tests, nowadays – and all he had to do when he wanted body parts was ask.

"Yes, Molly. The strangled woman."

"She's going to come in any minute, and I suppose that noise – " She was interrupted when Anderson opened the door and brought in the evidence.

"Oh great" he muttered, dumping the bags on the table and sending Sherlock a death glare before turning around. And then –

"Anderson, how sorry I am that your wife left you and all Sally gave you is her sofa – that is, I would be sorry, if I was capable of feeling pity for lower life forms."

His fists clenched, but he kept walking and left the lab. Greg's temper was something to be reckoned with, as Sherlock had learnt himself quite well in the course of the years.

He looked at John, who shook his head, but not really angry. "So that's why his bad back came from" he said, smiling through the headshake. The forensic tech's curses about it at the crime scene hadn't reached Sherlock's ears, while he was deducing, but John had certainly heard enough of them"

"It would seem so" Sherlock answered, turning to the evidence and giving Molly, who usually let him be on his own till he asked, a thankful smile when she shuffled out of the lab.

Then he took a deep breath.

Time to disprove his silly suspicion.


	3. Chapter 3

The killer, sadly, hadn't left them much to go on, and Sherlock, after spending an hour analyzing the nail polish, while John read the newspaper and got coffee, had to admit that his doctor had been right all along. The nail polish was "Pumpkin Orange Nr 72" and was sold in four stores in London, which, naturally, lessened the suspect pool quite a bit, even if you did count the boyfriends and mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and best friends who bought it as a gift – because normally you wouldn't choose such a strong colour for a gift. You'd only buy it if you were sure the person liked it – like John did.

Other than this not-really-a-discovery, which sadly, didn't exclude Harry from any suspicion, he had virtually nothing. The killer had taken the belt she'd apparently been strangled with, as well as the knife, with him; she(/he; never automatically assume anything without enough data, no matter how likely it seems) had apparently been wearing gloves; And there had been no evidence whatsoever in the alleyway.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. John looked up from his paper. "What happened?"

"Nothing, that's what" Sherlock snapped, sounding perhaps harsher than he intended. "The only thing I have to go is the nail polish – you were right about that, it is the rare label you buy for your sister – but other than that – yes, it narrows down the suspect pool, but – still, there are too many possible suspects. Nothing that would tie anyone to the murder – at least it wouldn't be enough to ensure a conviction".

"But, surely, this can't be everything" John answered, folding his paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. "You have solved cases with far less evidence before".

"That is true, but – " Sherlock murmured, distracted by looking once again at the nail polish through the microscope, not realizing that he had just used a word that automatically sent alarm bells ringing in John's head: "But".

"But what?" John demanded immediately, and Sherlock was so surprised by the exclamation and the realization that he, in fact, had just given something away, because, once again, he had allowed his brain to distract him when he should have controlled what he said, that he winced. Which, of course, convinced John even more that something was amiss.

Sherlock didn't want to lie to John. But he couldn't tell him the truth. So he took care to look unconcerned, looked into the microscope again and said, quietly, "It's just... the cases with less evidence... they were all before".

Of course John knew immediately what he meant by "before". He shuddered, but only slightly.  
"Don't worry, Sherlock, you always make it – well except when Mycroft decides to equip a flight with dead bodies in order to fool terrorists".

"I really had nothing to go on in that case, as you are well aware" Sherlock replied, making sure that his voice had just the right amount of whining in it, not enjoying this act one bit. But it did the trick; John smiled and stretched himself.

"I'm going to have coffee. Do you need a refill too?"

"Yes, please" Sherlock answered, rather happy to be able to be alone with his thoughts for a while.

Only he wasn't, because as soon as John had left the lab, Molly came in.

"Sherlock, I think you should see this" she said, excitedly. "I was just preparing the body for autopsy and scrubbing off more of the nail polish for eventual further test when I found this."

She gave him the bag. Sherlock looked at the new evidence.

There was the scrubbed off nail polish, sure, but –

Underneath the bright orange, there appeared to be something closely resembling –

"Blood?" he asked, feeling excitement curse through his veins.

"Could be" Molly replied. "Of course, it is a rather small amount, but since I didn't find any injury on her fingers, and her hands are completely clean, because the killer only stabbed her torso – "

"There is a good chance the blood belongs to our killer. Maybe she scratched her while she was strangled" Sherlock finished.

"She?" Molly looked confused.

"The victim was a lesbian and was found near a lesbian club, where she had left in the company of another woman – " Sherlock explained, though already trailing off, because he was preparing the DNA-test that would prove, once and for all, that his idea had been nothing but wild conjecture.

"Oh, I see. I'll leave you to it, then".

"Sure, thank you" Sherlock mumbled automatically as she was leaving the lab. The DNA-test would take a while, and he needed something to compare it to –

 _Of course_. How stupid of him. John had been in the military, where he'd been subjected to several medical tests a year – not only medical tests, but _blood tests_. You could get DNA from a blood sample... Maybe they had kept one...

Only one way to find out, and though Sherlock didn't particularly care to admit it, that way included asking his brother for help.

So he called Mycroft, who picked up after the first ring.

"Brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I don't have time for this now, Mycroft – I need a DNA-sample from John, and rather quickly" Sherlock replied. There must have been something in his voice, because Mycroft didn't ask why. In fact his only question was more than reasonable.

"Couldn't you ask John?"

"Mycroft, I don't want him to know – yet. If it all turns out well, he'll never have to know".

"Very well" his older brother answered, apparently ready to help, though he didn't know why Sherlock needed the sample. All in good time. Maybe, just maybe, if – when it all turned out to be pure imagination, he might tell Mycroft some time. But not now. Definitely not now.

"I was wondering if perhaps there was any way you could use your "minor position in the British Government" to access John's old service records and find out if there was any way I could get a DNA sample from old blood tests or anything similar" Sherlock responded, though without malice. Mycroft's and his relationship was complicated at best, but things had got easier once he'd returned. He'd never blamed Mycroft for telling Moriarty his life story – he himself, so passionate about his work, couldn't bear anyone a grudge who tried to do his "job" – in this case, running the country – at any cost. But his older brother had felt guilty, and had in fact been extremely happy and relieved (for Mycroft, at least, which meant he had let his umbrella drop when he'd seen Sherlock again for the first time) and, somehow, ever since then, though they still annoyed each other and bickered most of the time, it was easier. Better. They trusted one another now, in a way. Before he died, Sherlock would most likely never have called Mycroft in a case like this. But now...

His train of thought was interrupted by hearing his elder brother chuckling over the phone. "Sherlock, do you honestly believe that I am not in possession of a DNA-sample of every single one of your friends?" Maybe that should have made him angry. Or annoyed. But he concentrated rather on the fact that Mycroft had pronounced the word "friends" without any sarcasm. Maybe – at least concerning John and Greg – that was because they had somehow become Mycroft's friends too. And there weren't many people in the world who managed to live with both Holmes' in their lives.

"Right, how silly of me". They were silent for a moment. "Just out of curiosity, brother mine, when and how did you obtain that sample?"

"I don't always have him "kidnapped" as he puts it, to an abandoned warehouse. Sometimes we have coffee too. He normally leaves me to pay, which means he leaves and I am left alone with his used coffee cup."

"Rather dull, Mycroft. I think the diet is finally getting to your imagination".

"If that was the case, Sherlock, you would never have caught a single criminal" Mycroft replied, and if anyone else had used that tone, Sherlock would have considered it "good-natured". "I will send you the DNA-profile presently by e-mail."

"Thank you" Sherlock said, before they both hung up. They might be able to talk to each other now without insulting one another, but there was no need to maintain the facade of correct social interaction. They had never really greeted or said goodbye to each other on the phone – that was the way they worked. And now, for once, it actually did work. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he was grateful for that.

The e-mail arrived a few minutes later, and he was just accessing it through his smartphone, when the door opened once again and Mike Stamford strolled in. As the DNA from the blood wasn't even close to run through, and he hadn't anything better to do than to wait for Greg to make an identification, or for John to show up, and he actually liked the teacher, Sherlock smiled and greeted him politely.

"Hello, Mike".

"Hey, Sherlock, John told me you were here. Your coffee might take a while – when I saw him, he was chatting with the new nurse."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at this, but only almost, because he noticed a certain mischievous twinkle in Mike's eyes. "You might want to tell him that she's going to get married in a few weeks".

"Why should I? I have been told several times that I am not the best person to give someone news they don't want to hear" Sherlock answered and shrugged his shoulders. Mike smiled.

"I suppose you are right. John said something about a dead woman in an alleyway?"

"Yes, I'm running blood Molly found under her fingernails now" Sherlock responded, and then, because he thought it was polite (and he still tried to be nice to people, well, people he liked, anyway) he asked after Mike's family, which naturally led to a rather longue monologue about the teacher's son learning to speak.

Sherlock listened occasionally, and sometimes just made affirmative noises, while keeping an eye on the blood sample. He really wished it would just finish – this case would be so much easier when he'd disproved his first hypothesis and he could take John into his confidence (not about his silly suspicion, of course. But they could talk about the case then without Sherlock having to carefully choose his every word).

Mike suddenly stopped talking and looked at his watch. "Oh, I should be off - I really have to finish the paperwork, if I ever want to get home again. Would be easier though if my students weren't so bright and wrote at least an answer half a page long to every question. God I hate them."

And with a smile, and a cheerful wave, he was gone, but once again, Sherlock wasn't left alone, because John came in with the coffee not two minutes afterwards.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock – I had a nice chat with the new nurse. Who's apparently going to be married quite soon, as Mike just informed me when he ran past me on his way to his office" John apologized, though clearly more amused than exasperated as he gave Sherlock his cup of black, two sugars and put his own on a table.

"Something turn up while I was gone?"

"Molly found blood under the victim's nail polish, most likely from the killer, and it should be run any minute now – "

Just as Sherlock was saying this, the test was finished and he could print out the DNA-profile.

"See? Told you there would be another lead soon. So, what are we – Sherlock?" John sounded worried. And with good reason. The consulting detective started at the printed page, clenching the paper in his hands, his face even paler than usual.

John of course didn't know that the DNA-profile Sherlock was currently looking at –

Obviously belonged to a close female relative of the person whose profile Mycroft had sent him just fifteen minutes ago.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock? Sherlock? You're not telling me the truth. I can see something's going on – you have been acting strange ever since the crime scene, and I might not have your brain, but I know you, remember?" John came closer, looking worriedly at his friend, who still hadn't quite recovered from the shock.

"Has it to do something with the DNA-sample? Do you know it, by any chance?" Sherlock took a deep breath and managed to regain his composure, but suddenly, John seemed to think of something and he grew pale.

"It's not – "

"No, no" Sherlock answered quickly, able to read John's thoughts. "No, he's dead and gone."

"Okay". John nodded. "But then – what happened? Come on, you can tell me".

And Sherlock looked into John's eyes and knew he had to tell him the truth. He couldn't lie to his friend or procrastinate – his blogger would only be angry that he hadn't told him immediately. And he knew why John was so anxious to know what was troubling him. The last time John – well, he hadn't exactly realized something was wrong, but he had left the detective alone, and it had resulted in a three year long separation, and neither of them particularly cared to remember that time.

So he decided to answer rather quickly, "The DNA-sample that's most likely from the killer – I found another sample to compare it with. It's not exactly the same – but the woman whose blood was under the nail polish is a close relative of the man the second sample belongs to".

"But that's good news, isn't it?" John looked puzzled.

"Yes, it is – " Sherlock trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"So..." John prompted.

"The sample I compared it to – you must understand, it's rather... difficult to explain –"

"Okay, now you are scaring me. Since when are you so polite?"

"I have tried to make an effort to be nicer to people, like you told me" Sherlock replied, indignantly.

John shook his head, and smiled, though only for a moment. "True. You have tried – as far as you're capable of it, that is. But, please, you're just putting of the answer."

"Fine" Sherlock admitted, with a sigh. "The sample I compared the killer's blood to – it was yours."

John's eyes widened, and he started, uncomprehending, "But you said – that the killer – the killer was –"

"A close relative, yes" Sherlock responded.

John swallowed. "A close _female_ relative, wasn't it?"

"Correct".

"But – the only close female relative – well, my only relative in fact is – "

Suddenly, there was comprehension in John's eyes and he rubbed a hand over his face.

"Harry". It was a statement, but his voice was flat, and Sherlock, for once, couldn't tell what his blogger was thinking, which was disconcerting at a moment like this.

"Yes" he affirmed. It would most likely be best just to tell John why he ever came to suspect her – to explain the deducing process.

"It's Harry's favourite nail polish, the victim was a lesbian and left the bar with a brunette woman – and since your sister dyed her hair, as you told me not long ago – "

"Sherlock, wait a moment" John raised a hand and looked – unsure? Slightly angry? Slightly scared? All of the above?

"Good, so there are some indicators that my sister could be involved, but" and it was then he realized what Sherlock had been secretly dreading he'd realize ever since this conversation started.

"Sherlock? How come you could compare the killer's blood to my DNA? I don't think I ever gave you a sample. At least not willingly and consciously"

"And you wonder why people talk, if you use phrases like this" Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, good, but where is it from?" John insisted.

"Mycroft" Sherlock answered curtly. There was no explanation necessary; John knew his brother.

"Of course, why am I surprised". John sighed. "You know, you could have just asked me, instead of demanding a sample of my DNA from your brother."

"I didn't want to trouble you until I was sure. There was no need to share a suspicion with you that might have caused you nothing but discomfort."

"Didn't want to trouble me..." John mumbled, again running his right hand through his hair, while his left hand clenched to a fist. Sherlock didn't know what was going on inside his head. Was he angry? Why should he be angry? He'd just explained that –

Then John took a deep breath, unclenched his hand and let the other drop from his hair.

"Good. Fine: You told me now, anyway". Sherlock wanted to elaborate, but John shook his head.

"Trust me, it's fine". Then why couldn't Sherlock shake the feeling it was anything but?

John was staring straight into Sherlock's eyes. "What we need to find out now is why my sister's blood is on the body".

There was a rather easy and logical conclusion as to why, but Sherlock had a feeling that he shouldn't explain that right now.

"Maybe somebody is trying to frame her?" John suggested.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, honestly confused. True, Harry was polygamous and obnoxious, but still, framing someone for murder just because they annoyed you – if that was a common practice, Sherlock suspected that about three quarters of all the people he'd ever met would be in jail.

"I don't know – an ex-lover maybe? You were the one who told her all about that". John squeezed the bridge of his nose and once again took a deep breath. "Are you sure?"

"About the sample?"

"Yes, Sherlock, about the sample. And why do you even trust a sample of my DNA when you didn't have anything to do with procuring it?"

"John, are you suggesting that Mycroft of all people managed to accidentally switch a sample from your DNA with another one? That just so happens to belong to a relative of our – " seeing John's face, Sherlock changed the word he had actually been meaning to say to "suspect".

"Your brother isn't infallible. He has made mistakes in the past" John countered, eyes blazing rather dangerously.

"That is true" Sherlock admitted.

"See? You know what – I'm going to have a nurse draw a little of my blood, and then you can repeat the test, alright?" John suggested. Sherlock doubted it would have a different outcome, but thought it best to comply.

"Alright".

John left the lab rather quickly, and Sherlock would have cursed, if he ever cursed. He had meant to explain carefully, but once again, John's emotions had got in the way. He should have expected it, really; Harry was his sister, after all, and not all siblings were as estranged as him and Mycroft – though, coming to think of it, maybe even he would be doubtful if Mycroft was a murder suspect, no matter how demining the evidence looked.

But, right now, he had something to do, other than standing around waiting for John and wondering what he would do in his situation. John would most likely be against it, but he had to call Greg. The DI had to know what was going on. Even if it wasn't Harry's blood, or she had been framed.

He called his DI.

"Greg? It's me, we have a problem" he said immediately after he'd picked up.

Greg was silent.

"... Greg?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm here. It's just, the last time you used these word, we had to get you and an unconscious John out of a building that was destroyed by a bomb not two minutes after we'd succeeded".

"Don't worry, we're safe. We're at Bart's."

"So what's going on?"

"Molly found blood under the nail polish on the victim's nails – and it wasn't hers. There were no injuries on her hand. I already ran the sample."

If Greg was confused, his voice didn't betray it. "Very well. And, anything?"

"Yes. Our best suspect, at the moment, is a close female relative of John's".

Greg needed a moment to take that in. Then, slowly, he said, "Wait, but – Jesus. He only has his sister, right?"

"Yes".

"Does he – "

"Of course he knows. I had to tell him. I hope you won't tell me that I shouldn't have, Inspector".

Greg chuckled mirthlessly at that. "Sherlock, I think it's safe to say I have never followed correct procedure when it comes to you. To you both, to be honest. How did he take it?"

"He demanded to take another test."

"Well, then, you do that. I'm coming. Only me. And I won't tell anyone – yet. I promise."

"No need – I know you won't." Then, because the situation, right now, was far from normal, even for them, he added "That's why I called you".

"Okay, you must be really worried. I'll be there as soon as I can".

"Good. Thanks".

"Stop scaring me here. I'm jumping into my car as we speak".

Then the DI hung up, and Sherlock sighed with relief. At least he had someone else on his side, someone who understood John and would help him convince the doctor – if there wasn't any other explanation, and he highly doubted there was.

John came back, clutching a little vial with his blood. "Here. Run the test".

"Sure". Sherlock did, while John was pacing up and down the lab, now and then glancing at the machine.

Then, after they had waited in silence for about ten minutes, he said, "Sherlock... you know I'm not angry with you, right? It's just... the situation, and the fact that maybe someone is trying to frame Harry for something like this..."

"I understand" Sherlock said, though he still had his problems reading John and trying to gauge his reaction, no matter what the outcome of the test might be. But to hear that his blogger wasn't angry with him was something.

And then, because he didn't want him to be unpleasantly surprised, he added, "I called Greg".

For a moment, there flashed something in John's eyes, but then he nodded. "I should have expected you to. Is he on his way?"

"Yes – but he's told me he won't say anything until we're certain – " Sherlock searched for the right words – "What's going on" he finally finished.

John nodded, again. Then he smiled. "Good to know Greg is still holding up the correct procedure in such a case".

"Yes, he's always been a stickler for the rules – that's why we get on so well" Sherlock replies, with a smile of his own.

They heard the bleep of the machine indicating that the test was done.

Sherlock turned around and printed out the profile.

John was standing next to him, twitching, making Sherlock uncomfortable, but it must be a small inconvenience in comparison to how John was feeling right now.

He studied the paper and swallowed.

John didn't have to ask.

It was clear from the look on Sherlock's face that the result was the same.

The blood under the nail polish belonged definitely to Harry Watson.


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment silence reigned in the lab.

Just for a moment, but it was enough time for a lot of thoughts, memories and doubts flitting through the minds of the two occupants.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was aware of the sharp breath John drew in, but other than that... What could he do? What could he say? There was nothing to be said. The result spoke for itself. Even if this was all an elaborate plan to frame Harry – and it was by no means a strong "if". Why, in any case, even if someone wanted to get back at John and Sherlock, would they frame John's sister? It didn't make sense. No, the most likely scenario was still that Harry...

But – how to go from here, that was the question. He couldn't – if John would – he couldn't lose his blogger, not now, not after everything they'd went through together.

John, meanwhile thought about – it was difficult to say, really. Thoughts just swirled around in his mind, thoughts about his best friend, their case, his sister –

His _sister_.

No, it couldn't be. He'd grown up with Harry, and yes, they had never really got on, but she wasn't – she couldn't be – a _murderer_.

No. Harry wouldn't take a life, just like that. He knew Harry. She was his sister – his own flesh and blood... He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. Someone was framing her.

Someone had to be framing her.

There was no other explanation. He simply refused to think about another explanation. There couldn't – she wouldn't –

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by drawling "It's exactly the same result" as if he didn't know.

"Thank you for stating the obvious, I'm not sure I would have noticed – oh, except if they arrested my sister for a crime they didn't commit" John said, perhaps sharper than he intended.

Sherlock seemed taken aback, but only for a moment. "I just thought –"

"I know, Sherlock, I know, and I'm sorry". John took a deep breath.

"So I guess Lestrade is going to have to take Harry in for questioning" he said.

Sherlock winced. He didn't like the way John had pronounced "Lestrade"; aside from the fact that the detective had only been "Greg" to him for a long time, it didn't seem right for John to call him by his last name. It was almost like John was trying to distance himself from their friendship, their "group" as Mycroft had dubbed it one day.

"Yes, he has no other choice" Sherlock affirmed. "But he hasn't told a soul yet, so – he's going to be here shortly" he finished, not really knowing what he had wanted to say all along. He'd never been good with emotions, and though he'd made an effort ever since he returned –

It was still difficult. More difficult than he'd imagined, back when he'd been utterly alone, back when all he'd wanted was to return home.

John nodded and went to sit down on one of the chairs.

They didn't have to wait for long.

That didn't mean it didn't seem like an eternity for both of them.

Sherlock's time was just spent trying to figure out what John was thinking and/or feeling.

And as for John...

He didn't know what to think, to be honest. His best friend had just told him that his sister was the prime suspect in a murder case – what was he supposed to do with that? And even if – if – no, Harry was innocent. No other way to look at it. But still –

And then, all of a sudden, he had the feeling that he was a bad brother – who would believe his best friend, without even trying to talk to his sister first? But he couldn't call Harry; Sherlock had already told Lestrade, and John had had by now enough experience with the police to know how it would look if he called her now...

Greg came soon enough, with his usual calm and rational demeanour, which was a relief to both of them.

"Sherlock, John" he greeted them as soon as he'd opened the door. "Now, did you repeat the test?"

"I did" Sherlock answered, and just like John, Greg only had to look at his face to know what the result had been.

He took a deep breath. "Alright". He looked at John. "John..."

"I know" the doctor answered, "You have to bring her in for questioning".

Greg just nodded, and shot Sherlock, who for once understood the meaning perfectly, a glance. "John" the consulting detective drawled, "I know you want to be with us when we go to bring Harry in, but that's not the correct procedure – "

"Since when do you care about procedure?" John shot back, looking angry – again? All of a sudden? It was difficult to decide.

Greg looked at him. "John, having Sherlock run the evidence and help in the cases is one thing. But if the brother of the sus – " he noticed John's glare "of the witness is with us when we bring her in – that might just be too much. At least for any lawyer..." Then he realized what he'd just said.

"I mean, as soon as we catch the person responsible for the killing, her lawyer will argue that we had another potential suspect, and only let her go because she was your sister..."

Sherlock nodded at Greg, which he saw from the corner of his eyes; the DI was completely focused on John, though he couldn't help but worry about what this discovery might mean to Sherlock, too. If it turned out John's sister had actually committed the crime -

But it was too soon to think about something like that.

"And what if I stay behind in a cab?" John asked. "If I just sit there and have the cabbie take me to Scotland Yard as soon as I see Harry being taken in for questioning?"

"Then why would you come with us?" Sherlock wondered, frowning. "You could just go to Scotland Yard and wait for us..."

John looked at him, and just like that, Sherlock understood. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" his blogger confirmed.

Greg cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable in a moment he had no place in. "Alright, then, let's go. I have no other choice – "

"I know, Greg, I know" John replied, quietly, and Sherlock was somewhat relieved to hear him using the DI's first name.

They left the lab, although Greg let John leave first and grabbed Sherlock's arm when the door closed behind his blogger.

"Sherlock – what is going on? Is there a possibility that – " He seemed pained, and Sherlock understood the meaning all too well.

"That Harry is the killer? Yes. Although John definitely doesn't want to believe it."

"Of course he wouldn't She's his sister, for God's sake." Greg looked at the floor, then back at Sherlock. "And how are you feeling?"

"Me? I'm alright, I'm solving the case – "

"I know that, Sherlock, but –" The DI hesitated. "Just know that, whatever happens, you can come to me, alright?"

"I don't see – "

"Just say yes, Sherlock, please" Greg begged, concern written all over his face.

"Alright. Yes. I know".

"Good" his DI answered, before leaving the lab, Sherlock for once following the police.

Greg had a police car waiting outside, and John insisted that Sherlock ride with the DI, while he was following in a cab.

"Does he even have the money for the cab?" Greg inquired, as soon as he and Sherlock were sitting in the police car. "Last time I checked, he doesn't really have a job anymore – "

"He's helping me" Sherlock replied, indignantly.

"Right. Sorry about that."

"And Mycroft, as far as I know, takes care that every month a certain sum is put on his account..."

The DI's eyes widened. "Oh, okay then. So he – I mean, I know he practically saved my job after the story with Moriarty – still, I didn't think Mycroft was the type to – "

"He still blames himself for what happened" Sherlock replied curtly. It was true; Mycroft – aside from the fact that they got on better ever since Sherlock returned – had been very compliant ever since it happened. Sherlock didn't blame him; For as long as he could remember, their family had been all about thinking logically and doing the "right" thing, and as far as the future of the British nation was concerned, Mycroft had done the right thing. They wouldn't have got anything more from Moriarty; they had to release him. Still, it was nice to know that even his aloof brother wasn't able to completely let go of the disadvantage known as "caring".

John in the cab was trying to stay calm. Many people were brought in for questioning, and in this case, they didn't have another choice, really. Sherlock had done the test correctly, of course he had – Harry's blood was on the victim's nail. So she had to be brought in for questioning, and this didn't automatically mean that she was –

But of course she wasn't –

She couldn't be –

She wasn't. It was as simple as that.

The police car stopped in front of Harry's apartment building. John had his cab stop a few meters further down the road, just in case. As much as it pained him, Greg was right; he couldn't just go and make a scene.

Greg looked at Sherlock and nodded; they left the car and slowly walked into the building.

"Fourth floor" Sherlock said. Greg just accepted it – to ask why Sherlock Holmes knew some things would be like to wonder why the earth moved around the sun.

Before long, they were in front of Harry's flat.

She opened the door.

And then, she said something which let a shiver run down Sherlock's spine.

"I should have known you'd come."


	6. Chapter 6

John had had the cab stop a few metres behind the police car. That didn't get rid of the temptation to follow Sherlock and Greg, however. He was fidgeting, he couldn't help it, and looking at his watch every few seconds. One minute, he'd think it was a good thing they hadn't come out already; it meant that Harry was explaining everything. But the next, he thought – what if Greg was busy arresting her and –

No. They needed to bring her in for questioning. That was all. He trusted Sherlock – not even three years spent grieving for a very alive man had changed that. And he trusted Greg. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to wait.

"You alright?" the cabbie suddenly asked.

"Yes" John answered, much sharper than he intended, only to be sorry for it a moment later. So he added, "No, not really... It just hasn't been a very good day."

"Know what you mean" the cabbie replied, before they both relapsed into silence and John tried to be patient once more.

Sherlock and Greg stood in front of Harry – and John had been right, Sherlock thought, the new hair colour made her look at least five years older – for a few moments after she'd uttered her greeting. He didn't know what to think – no, that wasn't right. He didn't know what he _wished_ to think. Should he hope that, any moment now, the euphoria that accompanied a solved case would set in? Or wanted he to feel – guilty? Sad? He couldn't say, and that frustrated him.

Greg was cursing inside his head; of course he'd known that it was impossible that Sherlock had made a mistake, but still – she was John's sister. The only relative he had left. And he could tell that Sherlock, for once, wasn't happy about having a case either. Not everybody would have noticed – but Greg had known Sherlock for a long time now, and he could see Sherlock stiffen beside him at Harry's words.

However, they both relaxed – as far as the situation allowed – when she added, "After you pretty much emotionally killed my brother for a few years, it was only a question of time when you'd decide to make my life miserable too".

 _Bit not good_ , Greg thought, unconsciously adopting Sherlock's and John's way of dealing with emotional difficult situations. Sherlock and John had got over the consulting detective's "death"; they were back at 221B, solving crimes, John was writing his blog again, but, still – both of them were still a little sensitive when it came to their separation. Greg was too, if he was honest with himself. He'd missed Sherlock, maybe not in the way John had, but they were friends, and life hadn't been the same without Sherlock running around at the Yard or even waltzing into Greg's flat like he owned the place.  
He thought that Harry, considering she had been a great help to John in these three years, should really know better than to bring it up.

Apparently Sherlock thought so to, because he swallowed and took a deep breath to calm himself – not for the first time, Greg was impressed with how much the detective had changed and yet somehow stayed the same in the last years, though that didn't make much sense – and then, and only then, said, calmly and flatly, "Harry".

She didn't seem impressed by Sherlock's good behaviour – and as Greg thought that, rather indignantly, he was almost overtaken by an urge to laugh. So that's how far they'd come – he considered Sherlock saying a name, and not insult the person whose name it was in the same breath, "good behaviour". His suspicion that he had long ago lost his mind was confirmed. But, he thought, at least it was worth it. Many of his colleagues thought he didn't give damn about procedure (which was true), he'd most likely never see another promotion because the Chief Superintendent hated him, and he hadn't had a functional relationship since he left his wife (and he deliberately pushed away the thought of a certain rather pretty girl who was by now most likely performing the autopsy on the victim – he was too old for her anyway). But it was all worth it.

He only then realized that Harry was glaring at him. He'd met her a few times over the past few years, and he couldn't really say that he liked her. She had treated Sherlock's death (when John had been out of earshot, naturally)a little bit to – no, he couldn't say that she hadn't cared, but somehow – sometimes her sarcastic comments hadn't been what was best for John, in the state he'd been in. And Greg would definitely have liked her better if she could have just smiled more often – instead of the sneer that seemed to be her favourite expression.

"DI – Lestrade, was it?" she asked, sounding annoyed. "What are you doing here?"

"I am here in official capacity" he answered, holding up his ID, adding, when he realized the glare she shot Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes is assisting us in a case."

"Assisting? Fine. If you want him to. Not my problem. But what are you doing here?"

"Can we come in, please, Miss Watson?" Greg asked, as politely as possible.

She rolled her eyes and let them pass.

"You are aware that it's in the middle of the night, right?"

"It's before midnight" Sherlock said, indignantly.

"Right, I forgot, Dracula" she replied sharply. Greg tried to bring the situation under control.

"Miss Watson, there has been a murder".

"Apparently. I don't think he's interested in anything else. But what has this to do with me?"

It was at this moment that Sherlock had enough of being polite. He appreciated Greg trying to control the situation, he really did, but that didn't mean he necessarily wanted the situation to be controlled. He was aware that John would most likely be angry with him – but he couldn't help it.

"It has everything to do with you if the person who left her blood on the victim's fingernails is a close female relative of John's".

She needs a moment to take in what he just said, but then, for the fraction of a second, Sherlock saw something flashing in her eyes that he couldn't interpret and his heart sank. But maybe he only imagined it –

He looked at Greg, who was at the same time shooting him a glance, doubt in his eyes. So his DI had seen it to. The DI who had arrested countless murderers in his career, and he had seen something in Harry's eyes, just like Sherlock had –

That was a bit not good. In fact, that was a bit very not good.

"What?" Harry almost shouted, looking shocked, and Sherlock tried to calculate whether the reaction had been a bit too slow, or too quick, or just right for an innocent person. How he hated being unsure.

"Yes. So, Miss Watson, it is necessary that you accompany us to Scotland Yard so we can – "

"Can what? Wait a moment – "close relative of John's"? Do you just compare every blood sample you find with my brother's DNA out of fun? My God, how did you even – "

"Miss Watson, we don't have to discuss our procedure with you" Greg said, sternly. "But we have to take you in for questioning."

"What about John?" she demanded to know, hotly. "Does he know? Because I can't imagine that he's pleased that his _best friend_ is having his sister arrested."

"Of course he knows" Sherlock spat back. "Do you really think – "

Greg decided to intervene, for the best of everyone in the room, himself included.

"You are not arrested" he said, making sure that she heard the unspoken "Not Yet". "We need to take you in for questioning now, however. John will be waiting at the Yard."

She visibly relaxed under his words, and he could feel the short, thankful glance Sherlock shot him.

"Good, then, just let me get my coat, please". She went out of the room, and Greg turned to Sherlock. "What do you think?"

"I don't know" Sherlock replied, too quickly.

"You don't know or you don't want to know?"

"Greg" Sherlock answered, and the DI understood that now was not the time. Especially as Harry came back wearing a darkbrown coat, still looking angry.

"Let's get it over with, then".

"Do you want to call someone – a lawyer, maybe?"

"No need. I didn't kill her, so – "

"Her? How did you know it was a she?" Sherlock interrupted, and suddenly, Greg felt rather ill.

Harry shrugged. "I'm a lesbian, and I don't meet many men, as you were kind enough to point out, so – it was logical."

Greg still didn't like this. Something about the way she had said "her" felt... off. But at first he had to bring her to the station, then they could start investigating this properly.

John had known, of course, that they would bring Harry in. But that didn't mean he was prepared for the panic he felt when he saw Sherlock and Greg escort Harry out of the building and to the waiting police car. Everything in him was screaming to get out of the cab and run over, but he resisted the urge. It wouldn't do any good, and Greg had had enough problems at work over the course of the years because of Sherlock – John didn't have to add to the list.

Sherlock sighed with relief when he saw the cab drive off, and Greg could understand why. He had half-expected John to come running towards them.

"What was that? Backup?" Harry inquired.

Before Sherlock could answer, Greg said, curtly, "I have no idea".

The car ride was spent in silence. When they arrived at the Yard and went to the interview rooms, John was already there, waiting.

"John..." Greg began, but Harry interrupted him.

"John, would you please telly our very own live-in weirdo that I am not a murderer so I can go home?"

"Harry" he explained, patiently, "I can't do that. They found evidence – "

"Yeah, evidence, alright. Juts out of curiosity, did you actually give him the blood or did he suck it out of you in your sleep?"

John took a deep breath. "Harry, please... I gave it to him" and here, Sherlock shot him a glance, because his first sample had definitely not been given willingly "and just answer their questions, alright? The sooner this is cleared, the sooner we can all get home".

"John" Greg asked, "why don't you get yourself a coffee why Sherlock and I... clear this whole thing up? You know you can't come with us in the room".

John looked like he wanted to protest, then he nodded and left.

Greg let Harry be led in the interview room and then looked at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please, tell me, not as a DI, but as your friend. Do you think she did it?"

Sherlock looked at the floor, then back at Greg, his face a blank mask. "I think there's a distinct possibility that she did it."

Greg sighed and rubbed hand over his face. This was going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock followed Greg into the interview room, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He'd often thought, in years past, that no case could be as awful as Moriarty's "final problem". He had been wrong, completely and utterly wrong. Because he had the feeling that very soon he would have to tell John that his sister was –

A murderer. A cold-blooded killer. And he had no idea how his blogger would react. John was his best friend, that was true. But... having to choose between Sherlock and his sister... John had joined the army because he strongly believed in loyalty and kinship. And his sister... his won flesh and blood... Sherlock himself didn't care much about relations, except for the fact that most murders were committed by someone who was close to the victim. Other than that... Mycroft and him had really only got close now, after years of resentment. He considered John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mike Stamford and Angelo, closer friends than his brother.

But he wasn't sure what John thought. True, he had said on their first crime scene that he and Harry "never got on", but still...

"Sherlock?" Greg put a hand on his arm. "Can we begin?"

"Yes, please" was all he answered as he sat down next to the DI. Harry sat on the other side of the table, looking annoyed.

"In case you are interested, Inspector, I would like to get it over with too".

"Of course, Miss Watson".

John, meanwhile, was pacing up and down in a corridor that was far enough away from the ongoing interview so he wouldn't give into the temptation of trying to listen in. He knew it was enough of a risk on Greg's part to keep the investigation, not to mention having Sherlock help, even though John's sister had turned out to be sus– person of interest. There was no way John could listen... or try to listen... or –

He was going insane, not being able to do anything. He'd never been good at feeling powerless.

"John?" He almost jumped, then turned around thankfully.

"Oh, hello, Mike. Your paperwork finished for..."

Then he realized where they were. And how late it was.

"What are you doing here? Sorry, that come out sharper than I wanted... I..."

"It's alright, John" Mike answered, smiling. Then his face grew serious. "Molly called me after she found the results in the lab. Sherlock should be a bit more careful with the evidence."

"Do you want to tell him that?" John asked with a half-smile.

"Not particularly". Mike chuckled.

"Isn't sue going to get worried? What about Davey?"

"Davey and Sue can survive without me for a night, I'd say. But, John – how are you?"

"What do you expect? I'm not happy. Harry is a – a – Harry is being questioned, and I can't do anything."

Mike nodded and looked at his old friend with sympathy in his eyes. John had always, ever since he'd known him, needed to be _useful_ ; which was one of the reasons he and Sherlock got on so well. He couldn't stand doing nothing – especially if people he cared for had a problem. And his sister being the suspect in a murder inquiry... Of course Mike didn't voice that thought. He didn't think John would appreciate it.  
But still... as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't automatically rule out harry as a murder suspect like John. He knew her, and that was the problem. There had been too many nights, when they'd still been at university, where John had to leave his books or his bed in order to look for her, to pull her out of a ditch she'd fallen into drunk, sometimes even to get her out of a police station. How often had Harry promised to change, to look out for herself, only for John to have to come save her again? How often had his friend been tired and angry and distracted when he should have listened to their lessons? Mike should know – he'd been the one to lend John his notes, to make sure he slept or ate after a night spent on the streets. And Harry had never changed, as far as he could tell. Well, she had finally quit the booze, but other than that – she probably expected John to sort this out for her, too, not realizing that her brother couldn't make the police change their minds because she asked him to.  
He didn't say all of that either.

"Why don't we sit down?" he asked instead, motioning with his right hand towards a few chairs on one wall of the corridor.

John nodded. "Sure".

So they sat in a companionable silence. Mike knew that if John wanted to talk, he would be the one to start a conversation. For now, he would just be there for him.

After Greg had finished with the formalities, the interview began.

"Miss Watson, your blood was found on the nails of a murder victim."

"So I understand."

"Do you know this woman, by any chance?"

Greg laid a picture of the victim on the table. It only showed her face, but still, she was unmistakable dead, and Sherlock hoped against hope that Harry would be shocked or appalled. No such luck. She studied the picture with something close to indifference.  
And then, he suddenly realized why she was acting so hostile – whether she was innocent or guilty, she should be intelligent enough to notice her attitude wasn't doing her any favours – and cursed his own stupidity. Sentiment had, despite the fact that he preferred feeling to being someone like Moriarty, for example, the disadvantage of blinding you to simple facts.

Harry was drinking again and obviously in need of a drink.

Ironically, his first thought was _John is going to be angry_ , as if the good doctor wasn't angry already – your sister being the prime suspect in a murder inquiry tended to do that to people. After all John had gone through... And now, when he'd finally been convinced that she'd done it, that she'd overcome her addiction for good... But he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, he had to deal with the case. And Harry's role in it.

"I asked you if you knew the victim, Miss Watson". Greg's voice was polite, but firm, and Sherlock could tell his DI was worried too, worried what Harry had to say.  
She looked at the picture again. "Oh, yes. I chatted her up in a bar yesterday – her name was Barbra, I think. She was pretty drunk, so I thought, why not? But when I tried to get closer, after we'd left, she scratched me, here – " she rolled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed them a scratch that was definitely deep enough to bleed a little "so I left her. She was pretty drunk, though".

"You had a few drinks too" Sherlock said, face and voice devoid of emotions. It was a statement, not a question, and when he saw Greg raise an eyebrow at the sentence almost imperceptibly, he gave him a slight nod – so slight that nobody who didn't know him would have noticed. Greg's shoulders slumped.

Harry looked even more aggressive, if that was possible. "Yes, I did. So what? I drink just enough to function".

"But you told John you had stopped." Greg, until now professional and detached, apparently couldn't hold it in anymore, and Sherlock couldn't blame him, but if they weren't careful, Greg might lose the case, and Sherlock knew no other DI he'd rather have at his side. Dimmock was not bad, it was true, but he couldn't hold a candle to Greg.

So he said, under his breath, almost inaudibly, "Greg", and saw the DI relax. Just a bit, but it was enough.

Harry glared at them both. "I did – for a while. But then, when Dracula here returned and John moved in with him just like that, I figured he didn't need me sober anymore."

Sherlock was rather glad he'd warned Greg less than a minute before; even he, not the most emotional of men, was struggling to stay calm. But he managed to control his voice as well as ever when he asked, "And you left her there? In the alleyway?"

"I left her a few streets from the bar – don't know where exactly, and didn't care. I was a little bit angry" she answered.

"Angry enough to kill?" Greg inquired.

"I didn't say that, Inspector."

"So you left her there and went..."

"I went home."

"Any witnesses?"

"I live alone. I'm sure Sherlock will already have deduced as much".

She spat his name like an insult, something Sherlock was more than used to and wouldn't even have noticed, probably, if she hadn't been John's sister. Greg saw him wince – only slightly, in fact he didn't think Harry had even realized she'd hit a nerve. He still didn't like it when people were hostile towards his friend, even if Sherlock seemed to ask for it, sometimes.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you for y moment outside, please?"

"Take your time. I'll be here" Harry commented, obviously bored.

Greg nodded at the PC waiting outside, who went in and closed the door.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Greg sighed and brought a hand up to massage his temples.

"Yes, I think she might very well be the killer too. Sherlock, what do we do?"

"Find evidence. At the moment, we can't disprove her story. She is a person of interest, but..."

"You are right, of course you are, Sherlock, but I meant in regards to John."

Sherlock shoulders slumped, and Greg's hand twitched with the urge to clasp one of them, but he – then he decided, sod it all, they were friends, and did it. Sherlock shot him a surprised but not unthankful glance.

"I – I don't know. I guess – I'll – talk to him?"

Greg managed not to smile, but only just. Ever since Sherlock had returned, he'd tried to show more emotions towards people he called "friends", but it was still difficult for him.

"Good idea. But, first of all, let's send her home and get a few hours of rest. She won't be so stupid as to try to flee".

"You are right" Sherlock answered, though more for Greg's and John's benefit. He only very rarely slept while on a case, and certainly wouldn't tonight.

So they went back in and let Harry go – who didn't seem surprised, but wasn't very polite either.

"And, remember, Miss Watson, don't leave London at the moment".

"Don't worry. There are too many bars here."

And with that, she followed the PC that was to bring her home. Sherlock was already searching for John, Greg following him slowly.

They found John and Mike Stamford sitting next to each other a few corridors down, and Sherlock smiled at the teacher gratefully. He smiled back, stood up and said, "Well, time to get home to the family, I'd say. John, if you need anything, just call. Same to you, Sherlock".

"Thanks" they said both at the same time, then all of them – Greg in the background included – chuckled.

"Good, then. I'll see you around." And with his trade-mark wave, Mike left.

John looked at Sherlock. "Is she – "

"She was brought home. She's not exonerated, but she wasn't arrested, either."

John nodded, somewhat relieved. "That's something". Then his brows furrowed and Sherlock had to acknowledge once again that his blogger knew him better than anyone else.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Here Greg decided to interrupt; he didn't want Sherlock to have to tell John.

"She's drinking again, John. I'm sorry."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand. "I'd lie if I said I hadn't expected it, but there's always hope..." He shook his head. "God, I need to sleep".

"I'll have a car bring you home."

"Thank you, Greg" Sherlock answered, then added, when they were almost past the DI, "for everything."

"Anytime, Sherlock, John". Then the DI turned around and went to his car.

The ride was silent. Sherlock opened his mouth a few times, but didn't know what to say, so he closed it again.

When they arrived at Baker Street, it was almost 3 o' clock in the morning, and John went to his room immediately, although Sherlock could still hear him pacing. Knowing the doctor would need all his strength tomorrow, he took his violin and started playing a soothing melody of his own creation – he'd long ago composed it to calm John after one of his nightmares.

Soon, he heard John's bed creak and smiled while he kept playing. A few minutes after that, the silence he'd long ago connected with John sleeping fell over the flat, and with a relieved sigh, he put his violin down and let his blogger have his much-needed rest.

Sherlock spent the night lying on the sofa, thinking about the case.


	8. Chapter 8

Because John needed rest, Sherlock didn't pace up and down or play his violin while he was thinking. He would have loved some music to clear his thoughts, be he couldn't, not when John's sister was – it would be a bit not good, playing happy tunes while Harry Watson was considered a suspect in a murder inquiry.

What troubled Sherlock the most was the – from a human perspective understandable, yet logically absurd – fact that John seemed absolutely sure that his sister was innocent and someone was trying to frame her. The doctor didn't even consider the possibility that she might be guilty, despite evidence – true, not conclusive evidence, but still – to the contrary. If – and he forced himself to think "if"- it turned out that John had been wrong, that Harry had actually committed – he didn't know how he would react.

And – of course this was a selfish thought, but, as Mycroft would tell him, "I wouldn't have expected different from you" – how would he feel towards Sherlock, who had made sure his sister ended up in custody? How would he feel towards Greg, how would most likely be the arresting officer? He doubted that John would be as secretly or not-so-secretly pleased as Mrs. Hudson had been, all those years ago. Then, again, his sister had never abused him.

But, considering the hints Mike had given him, now and then, concerning his and John's time at university, their relationship had been far from amiable. True, she had been there for him when Sherlock had disappeared, and she had quit the booze – for a while – but they had apparently never really got on. Which was probably why John hadn't nagged him as much about his relationship with Mycroft as about other topics, like sleeping or eating.

But it wouldn't do any good to speculate. What did he have, that was the question.

He had found Harry Watson's blood on the victim's nails, under the nail polish. Harry had admitted she had had a fight of sorts with the victim, and that she had scratched her. It was possible. But why the nail polish? Why would anyone paint the victim's nails –

 _Psychology_. Sherlock had never really appreciated so-called "profilers" – he was a man for facts and science, not for conjecture. But – you could say that, with the nail polish, the killer wanted to transform her victim into someone else, someone she knew but couldn't – or wouldn't kill because she would immediately be the prime suspect, if say, an ex-lover was found –

Ex-lover.

And who did Sherlock know who had a history of being promiscuous and at least one ex-lover she definitely was rather angry with?

This was definitely, absolutely a bit very not good.

Sighing, he resigned himself to wait for daylight, when Greg would surely have a search warrant for Harry's flat and the autopsy report would be finished. So, instead of thinking about the case, he reorganized a floor of his mind palace, the one dealing with nail polish identification – at least he'd realized he needed to do that while he'd processed it.

John stood up around seven. Sherlock hadn't expected him to even sleep this long, to be honest – John never rested particularly well when someone he loved was in danger. His blogger came down only a few minutes later, fully dressed, took one look at Sherlock and sighed. "I didn't expect it, but I rather hoped you'd get some rest yourself".

"I don't sleep while I'm on a case, you know that."

"Doesn't mean I can't try" John replied, absent-mindedly. Then he looked at Sherlock, and realized he hadn't really spoken a word to him ever since they left the lab yesterday. Not even when they'd come home.

He remembered pacing up and down the room, knowing he wouldn't get any sleep, although he was exhausted; he remembered when the music had started, music he recognized because he had heard it, now and then, after a nightmare, when he hadn't really been paying attention to his surroundings, soothing him back to a dreamless sleep, and how he'd laid down on the bed, hoping it would at least make him relax a little. And he remembered that he'd been asleep maybe five minutes later.

It was an unspoken agreement they had: Sherlock didn't mention John's nightmares, John didn't mention Sherlock's help. But sometimes being silent wasn't an option.

"Thank you. For last night."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but immediately adopted his usual careless attitude as he asked, "So you did get some sleep?"

"As you know perfectly well. Yes, I slept a little. But you didn't, so please, at least have a toast before we leave."

Only later, in the cab on the way to the Yard, would he realize that he'd just put making sure Sherlock ate above helping his sister out in a most difficult situation. He would realize it, but he wouldn't be surprised. Maybe it should have given him something to think about, but it didn't. That was just how it was, and nothing could change that.

Sherlock knew when not to argue with John, so he ate a piece of toast, though he really wasn't hungry at all, and didn't make any comment about John not eating anything, before they sat out and, as usual, immediately caught a cab.

"Sherlock?" John inquired, when they were about half-way to the station, "What's going to happen now?"

Any other day, he would have answered with "Use your brain, John, you still have more of it than most", but today wasn't any other day.

So he explained patiently. "Greg will have a search warrant for Harry's flat, and one to take some of her blood – we still need to confirm it was really her's, as annoying as standard procedure is. And Molly will have finished the autopsy report, by now".

"Okay. Good." John nodded and proceeded to stare out the window for the rest of the cab ride. Sherlock remembered how Mike and him had sat next to each other, not speaking a word, yesterday, and decided it meant that John didn't want to talk about it, but would eventually. Then he remembered what Greg had done to him and squeezed John's shoulder just for a moment. When he let his hand drop and John turned around, a little bit surprised but with a thankful smile, he knew he'd done the right thing.

They climbed out of the car wordlessly and soon joined Greg in his office, were he immediately shot Sherlock a look that asked "How is he?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow to indicate "So far, fine", and the DI smiled. "Sherlock, John. I have the warrants – and Molly has finished the report".

Saying this, he stared Sherlock straight in the face and the consulting detective knew that his DI wanted to speak to John alone.

"I'll get it, then" he answered, striding out of the office and making his way to St Bart's.

Greg looked at John, before he chuckled for a moment. "And there are people who call him a heartless bastard."

"Well, we all make mistakes", John answered, rather serious.

Greg cleared his throat. "John..."

"I know, Greg."

"Do you really? Because there is the possibility that –"

"And you say I sound like Sherlock? Please, Greg; once you have – if you ever find any prove that she really did it, fine. But until then – no, I know she hasn't done it, she's my sister..."

Greg listened to John's rambling for a few minutes, knowing that the doctor couldn't do it in front of Sherlock, because the consulting detective with his quick thinking wouldn't understand it. Then, in a pause, he interrupted him. "John, I know you don't believe it. But you know we have to investigate, right?"

"Sure, Greg, yes, I know. But – " and here, John took a deep breath, before smiling a small, but heartfelt smile "thank you for telling me."

"Anytime, mate". And then they went to get a coffee while waiting for Sherlock to return.

Sherlock found Molly in the morgue, looking once more over the body of the victim.

"Hello, Molly."

"Hi, Sherlock. Here's the report – she was strangled, the stab-wounds were inflicted post-mortem. And she had quite a lot of alcohol in her system, so she couldn't have put up much of a struggle. Oh, and I might have found a way to identify her".

She lifted the sheet. Sherlock glanced at a tattoo the victim had right above her heart. "Magna Carta" he muttered. "Someone was as passionate about his home country as about his work. Good work, Molly. There can't be many people running around with the name of an ancient document tattooed on their heart."

He turned around to go, the report in hand, when Molly's voice stopped him. "How's John?"

"He's – handling the situation rather well" Sherlock replied, curtly.

Molly bit her lip. "And you? What about you? It can't be easy."

"It isn't, Molly" Sherlock answered, and his shoulders slumped slightly. "I don't know what he thinks – I was the one who – "

"John knows you didn't want it, I'm sure" she said, trying to smile encouragingly at him. She walked over to him and squeezed his forearm. "Remember – you can always have me" she added, clearly teasing him with her former embarrassment.

"I know" he answered, smiling, "but don't you think Greg will be jealous?"

She blushed, and Sherlock said, as he strode out the room, "I'll greet him, don't worry".

But he couldn't deny on his way back to the Yard that he felt considerably lighter than before.


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock returned to Greg's office, the DI and John were drinking coffee in silence, and he really wished he could read people's emotions as well as Greg so he'd know what they had talked about. But Greg didn't look particularly worried or concerned, so John must be alright, for the time being, at least, considering that his DI was nothing if not overprotective.

"And, do you have the report?" Greg asked off-handedly.

"Yes, I do. Molly says hi".

He and John shared a smile when Greg blushed slightly, and just for a moment, it was as if this case had never been brought to Sherlock's attention. Just for a moment, but it was enough, for the time being.

Greg cleared his throat. "Good, then. Any news?"

Sherlock opened the folder even though he didn't have to, because in this case he simply couldn't allow himself to be wrong about any detail.

"She was drunk, and she was strangled, most likely with a belt, the stab-wounds were inflicted post-mortem. And there is one feature that might help identify her – she had the words "Magna Carta" tattooed over her heart – "

"Magna Carta?" Greg frowned. "Yes" Sherlock answered, "the document drawn up under King John..."

"I know what the Magna Carta is, Sherlock. Despite what you may think, I actually have some resemblance of an education. I just think it's a weird choice for a tattoo."

"Should help to identify her, though" John interrupted. "Why don't you send out a few people? Sure, there are a lot of tattoo shops, but still – there's a chance someone will recognize it".

"You are right" Greg replied, eyes sparkling, and Sherlock could tell he was thinking again that he and his best friend were becoming more and more alike every day. Though, at the moment, he doubted if that was a good thing. "I'll send a few people out – Sherlock, do you have any idea..."

"High-class shop, definitely – she's most likely a lawyer and wouldn't let her tattoo be made in a small shop".

"Good" Greg said, grabbing the receiver of his phone, waiting for a moment and then barking orders into it. John looked at Sherlock. "So, if the victim was drunk... Does that mean that..."

"It... Harry's version of the events seems more likely with forensic evidence behind it" Sherlock answered, unsure what to say. John nodded, hope in his eyes, and Sherlock tried to keep the guilt he was feeling at bay. Because he had had an idea, walking back from the lab, and he didn't know how to ask John about it.

So he decided not to think about it and just ask. "John, do you happen to know any of Harry's ex-lovers?"

His blogger blinked slowly. "What do you mean? Apart from Clara and – what was her name – Rose I never met any of them. They usually don't stick around long enough for me to meet them, to be honest." Then, suddenly, his expression grew dark. "What do you mean? You don't think that Harry"

"John" Greg decided to interrupt, after he'd put the receiver down, "Sherlock just wants to make sure. You know how he is. Not exactly "Mr. Tact". But he's just trying to – "

"I know, I know. Sorry, Sherlock".

"No problem" Sherlock responded, feeling helpless. Greg had been there to help with the situation, but what if John had asked him this when they were alone, in their flat, for example? Would he have calmed himself? Would Sherlock have been able to calm him down? Would they have fought?  
There were just too many variables, and Sherlock didn't have any data at all based on which he could decide or deduce what would have happened.

Greg looked from Sherlock to John. "John, I know you want to come with us, but it'd not possible. Why don't you stay here and see if the search based on the tattoo does any good?"

John laughed bitterly. "Nice way to say "John, how about you do something completely useless while we go grill your sister?" Seeing Greg's face, he added, "I understand. I'll just stay here – in your office. I won't do any harm, I promise. Just – " and here, he faltered for a second, and Sherlock suddenly realized that even John wasn't free from doubt "Just take care, you two."

"Don't worry, I kept Sherlock alive for five years before you showed up" Greg replied while already dragging Sherlock out of the office. "We'll see you when we get back".

And then, before John could answer, they were already on the way to the elevators.

"Trust me, he needs some time for himself" Greg answered Sherlock's unspoken question, and the consulting detective, for once, didn't answer and let himself be dragged forward.

John resigned himself to wait and sat down on Greg's chair. He really didn't like not to be able to do anything – still, or again, he wasn't sure – but there wasn't anything he could do without jeopardizing the whole investigation. And Greg didn't deserve problems.

And neither did Sherlock, for that matter. It wasn't his fault that John's sister had turned out a suspect in a murder inquiry, and really, he'd done everything right. He'd only told John when he had had proof, he'd been, for lack of a better word, nice, and he hadn't pushed him. John really wished he could talk to his best friend – really talk, not just say "I'm fine, don't worry about me". The problem was that he couldn't seem to find the right words for what he was feeling. The reason for that might be that he didn't even know what he was feeling, exactly, and that made him feel guilty.

He shouldn't feel any doubt. He should be sure his sister couldn't be the murderer. He should trust her –

He should trust her more than he trusted Sherlock.

But that was impossible, and that fact made him feel even more guilty.

Because, if it wasn't blood that made you a family, but affection and trust, Sherlock was much more a member of John's than Harry had ever been.

And she was his sister.

Feeling guilty and confused, he finally decided to try and rest – barely four hours of sleep might be enough to last Sherlock for several days, but John needed a bit more. So he laid his head on his arms and managed (somehow, though it wasn't that surprising, considering he'd managed to sleep in Afghanistan) to fall asleep.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Greg were on their way to Harry.

"What do you think will she – " the DI tried to ask, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I doubt she'll be pleased. She will most likely demand to see John again. Actually, I wondered why he didn't go to her, yesterday, after you had had her brought home. I'd thought he'd want to talk to her immediately." He didn't really expect his DI to answer, and for a moment, he didn't.

But then Greg said, keeping his eyes on the road, "I don't think he's as sure about her innocence as he wants us to believe."

"But then why doesn't he say so? Why would he want us to believe that? I thought we were his friends – aren't we supposed to help him get through hard times or something like that?" The consulting detective, Greg could see it from the corner of his eye, looked confused, and he allowed himself a brief smile. Trust Sherlock to be able to identify nail polish, perfume and tobacco ash, but never expect him to understand the basics of human emotion.

"Yes, Sherlock, he should tell us, so we can help him, and he probably will soon. But, right now, he is feeling guilty because he can't automatically take his sister's side – "

"So he tries to tell himself he does" Sherlock finished the sentence, and Greg was reminded again that the Sherlock sitting next to him wasn't the Sherlock he'd arrested so long ago anymore. That Sherlock would never even have tried to understand what was going on inside his friend.

Then, he had another thought, one that was far less encouraging.

"Sherlock – did Harry contact John? Or try to? At all?"

"Not to my knowledge. Based on what you just told me, she either realized that John wouldn't believe her, or she..." he was silent, and the DI understood all too well what it meant that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, hadn't finished that sentence.

"Good. Or not. Whatever. But let's say Harry didn't do it. Let's hope she didn't. What do we know about the killer?"

Sherlock remembered what he had thought about in the night.

"I think she wanted to transform the victim into someone else – an ex-lover, perhaps."

"Couldn't it be a man, if Harry is innocent? She was strangled, after all."

"Could be, but with the level of alcohol in her system, it wouldn't have been difficult to strangle her. And then the stab wounds... a man could just have raped her."

"Maybe he's impotent?"

"Then why do it at all, if not even murder brings you release?"

Greg shook his head. There was no arguing with Sherlock Holmes when he'd made up his mind, he knew it all too well. "Good, then. So she painted the victim's nails to "transform" her into someone from her past."

"Yes".

"Why the nail polish?"

"Isn't that a thing women do? Paint each other's nails?"

"Just when I thought there wasn't a topic you could know less about than friendship between men..."

But at this moment, they arrived at Harry's apartment block, several police cars with the search party behind them – though Greg had made sure that it didn't include Anderson or Donavan. Sherlock made sure to put a reminder to thank him for it later in a corner of his mind palace.

They had to wake Harry up – apparently she didn't have a job, and Sherlock couldn't say he was surprised. She was still hostile but let them in without complaining too much.

It was Greg who found the picture in the bedroom and called out, while Sherlock was looking through Harry's bookcases under her glare.

He strode into the bedroom and took the picture that had been standing next to the bed out of the DI's hands.

He saw immediately what Greg had seen.

The woman in the picture, clearly Harry's ex-lover – the one she had been sad about when Sherlock had met her for the first time, most probably – wasn't their victim.

But she could have been her twin.

And she was wearing Harry's favourite nail polish.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock and John looked at each other. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Then, Greg cleared his throat and glanced at the picture Sherlock was still holding again. "Jesus" he mumbled.

"Greg, I am not prone to swearing, as you well know, but I think you have hit the nail on the head" Sherlock answered, giving him the picture and starting to pace up and down Harry's bedroom.

His DI shook his head and put the picture back on his bedside table. "Do you know anything about Harry's ex-lover?"

"Just that she broke things off when she realized she was only the lover and not the girlfriend. I only saw her one time, when the girlfriend as well as the lover had broken things off, and I don't have enough data..." Sherlock was trying to make sense of it all, to find a theory that didn't include Harry as the murderer, if only to please –

He was only trying to help John, and he knew it. But still – it was better than becoming like Moriarty; cold, a psychopath, a consulting criminal, and enjoying it too. He had to find another explanation, if only for his blogger's sake.

Greg swallowed, then asked, very quietly, ""To transfo0rm the victim into someone else"... didn't you say something like that?"

"Yes I did" Sherlock replied, still pacing.

"Sherlock..."

"The picture itself isn't conclusive evidence" he responded curtly.

Greg sighed. "I know, and I'm on your side, remember? But still..."

And, just like that, Sherlock felt bad for having treated Greg like that. It wasn't his DI's fault. There was no reason to treat him like he had treated him – well, before he jumped. He trusted Greg, it was as simple as that.

"I know it doesn't look good... But still, the picture is no proof. So she has an ex-lover who looks like the victim... that might well be true for a certain percentage of the population. And the DNA on the victim's fingernail... we still can't disprove her story."

The DI nodded. "Works for me. I'd rather not have to arrest John's sister for as long as I can help it. Although I have to bring her in again – we still need a DNA sample."

Sherlock turned around and returned to the living room without another word, knowing that Greg wouldn't hold him against it. Harry stood in the middle of the carpet, glaring daggers at every policeman or forensic guy that might happen to be in her vision.

Then she realized Sherlock had entered the room and decided to glare daggers at him instead.

"And? Found anything of interest?"

Sherlock wanted to tell her about the picture, but he knew it wouldn't be a good move. When he heard Greg exit her bedroom, he turned around and knew by the slight nod the DI gave him that he'd pocketed the picture.

Greg spoke. "Miss Watson, you will have to accompany us to Scotland Yard again – we need to take a blood sample to compare it to the blood found on the victim's finger nail."

"I thought I already told you she scratched me?" Harry sounded indignant, even angry, and Sherlock decided to take this as a good sign. Innocent people got angry when you accused them of something they didn't commit. True, she could be playacting, but he chose not to think about that.

"Yes, but we need to confirm it. Would you please go with Sergeant Mellows?"

She went with the Sergeant, grumbling all the way, and Sherlock stayed in the middle of the room, lost in his thoughts, while Greg was talking to one of the forensic techs.

He only came out of his mind palace when the DI approached him.

"They found nothing... At least nothing that could tie Harry to the crime just like that. They certainly didn't find anything that looks like a belt used to strangle someone."

"Good. That's good" Sherlock answered, absent-mindedly, trying to chase away the feeling that he'd missed something.

"I'm not sure it is" Greg answered enigmatically. "Because we have to take her in regardless, and I hate the thought of what it will do to John if we can't rule her out..."

"Don't you think I do too?" Sherlock shot back sharply, immediately regretting what he'd said. "I didn't mean..."

"I know you didn't" Greg said, to Sherlock's relief not looking particularly concerned or hurt. "Let's just bring her in, alright? If you want, I can wait with the interview until you brought John the news".

"I would prefer that" was all Sherlock answered, before strolling out of the flat, Greg's worried look following him.

He might not know Sherlock better than John, but he had known him longer – long enough to realize that the consulting detective was – for lack of a better word – confused and lost.

And that was never a good sign.

The last time he'd seen him like this, Sherlock had –

No. That was over and done with. He'd promised himself never to bring it up again. It was enough that Sherlock was back where he belonged, safe and sound. No need to remember the three lost years, where not only the consulting detective's, but the life of everyone who cared for him seemed to hang in limbo.

So Greg just shrugged, nodded to the remaining forensic techs, and left the building to drive back to Scotland Yard with Sherlock.

The spent the ride mostly in silence; to be honest, Greg was rather worried what Sherlock was thinking. God knew, his own thoughts were far from pleasant – but Sherlock was John's best friend. And he probably didn't want to tell him that they brought in his sister.

Again.

Even though John already knew that they would bring her in, even though they brought the best news imaginable at present – they hadn't found anything to tie her to the crime, at least – it wasn't a conversation either of them was keen to have.

But it would probably be easier for –

"That's... nice of you, Greg, but you don't have to" Sherlock interrupted his train of thought. The DI sighed.

"I would ask you how you knew that, but let's be honest – it's utterly pointless."

But Sherlock smiled at him a little after he'd said that, so maybe his thought process hadn't been so pointless after all.

When they arrived at the Yard, Harry had already been brought in the interrogation room. Sherlock pulled Greg aside.

"I'd be thankful if you could bring her to Molly yourself and make sure she stays here... There's something I have to check out".

"I assume you'll tell me in time?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow, not in the least surprised. H was, however, surprised when Sherlock suddenly put a hand on his right forearm and squeezed it. "I promise you, Greg."

"Well then..." and the DI had to clear his throat, because all of a sudden, his voice sounded a little croaky. "I'll... do what you said." And he turned around, walking towards the interview room, Sherlock smiling to himself behind his back.

Before his so-called "death", he'd never put any importance on making people feel better about themselves. But while he still didn't think that it was absolutely necessary, he couldn't deny that it made him feel better as well.

He made his way to Greg's office, relieved to see neither Anderson nor Donavan on the way. Maybe they were crying over the lost opportunity of insulting him, or they were actually doing their job, for once, though he shuddered at the thought. But at least they weren't here to make John even more miserable.

He smiled when he found John asleep at Greg's desk, his head on his arms. So he got two more hours of rest. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He gently shook him awake. "John?"

The doctor mumbled incoherently, and Sherlock smiled again. Would it be anyone else, his blogger would already have woken up and most likely scared the other person – most of his girlfriends had been surprised at his reaction when woken up, though they should have known, really, with John being an experienced soldier – but whenever Sherlock tried to wake him, he tried to get a few more minutes of sleep. There was something unbelievably trusting in this attitude, something Sherlock couldn't explain and wasn't even – although normally he would have tried – keen to explain. It was just – the way it was, and that was enough.

And then John's head went up, he saw Sherlock and remembered, and because of the worry in his eyes, Sherlock really wished he'd let him sleep a little longer.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Was Harry – "

"Brought in. To give a blood sample. We didn't find anything in her flat, don't worry" Sherlock said quickly, not wanting his blogger to worry more than he already did.

John sighed relieved. "Thank God for that."

Now came the difficult part, and Sherlock didn't know how to say it. "Listen, John, I have to check something – "

"And you don't want me to come with you". John finished. It was a statement, and Sherlock flinched at the resigned tone in the doctor's voice. At this, John smiled. "No, I understand. Really, I do. Just..."

"Don't worry, I already promised Greg I'd tell him what I did, and we both know he'll tell you as soon as he finds out".

John smiled again, though this time, it was thankfully a real smile. "True. Just take care."

Sherlock left the station feeling rather guilt, because he didn't know if he'd find something to exonerate Harry or put a nail in her proverbial coffin.

He'd forgotten to look for the belt, he'd realized on the way back from Harry's flat, and it was likely that the killer had got rid at it at the nearest opportunity – she would have to have been particularly cold-blooded to wear the belt or put it in her pocket, after she'd committed murder with it.

It took him less than an hour to find the right bin – as usual.

What wasn't usual, however, was that he was feeling worried –

Because the murder weapon looked slightly familiar.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock carefully put the belt – many women could own a belt like that, there was no reason to theorize without data – in a plastic bag and caught a cab back to St Bart's, trying not to indulge pointless thoughts like whether it would really turn out to be Harry's belt. He would find that out soon enough. Strangulating someone, even if the victim was drunk, wasn't easy, and they didn't know yet if the killer had worn gloves. If she hadn't, and if this was the murder weapon, which was rather likely, considering he found it three streets away from the murder scene at the very bottom of a bin, there might be some of her DNA on it...

And it would be absolutely condemning evidence.

And Sherlock should be elated, really, but he couldn't, because he was afraid for John. Not for Harry, which maybe was a bit not good (he wasn't sure – was he supposed to feel sorry for her? Appearing "more human" had certainly seemed easier when he'd been lonely and trying to hunt down the members of Moriarty's web).

Realizing that this course of thought would not help him at all, he decided to spend (or at least try to spend) the rest of the cab ride figuring out if there was a single shop in the city that sold cigarettes that neither John nor Mycroft had bought out. Then he remembered that the last thing John needed right now was a repetition of the danger nights before his disappearance, and tried instead to memorize once again the planets in the solar system.

While Sherlock was searching for the belt, Greg was taking Harry to St Bart's. There was no doubt in his mind that Molly would gladly take and process the sample of John's sister's blood; she would certainly be eager to help, if only out of the hope of helping out her friends.

He couldn't say that he'd wanted John to show up, though he'd expected it. It had been rather clear, from the way Sherlock had acted, that he hadn't wanted any company. And the consulting detective had certainly told his blogger where his sister would be. So, really, the question wasn't if John would up, but when.

He'd just brought Harry – a very silent Harry, who had come with him when he asked, but made no sign of understanding him whatsoever, apart from a certain annoyance in her eyes – to St Bart's. Molly was already standing in the corridor, pretending not to look out for them. He wasn't surprised, really; she'd certainly seen the results of the DNA-test and had drawn her conclusion. He stopped himself from shooting her an admiring glance by once again reminding himself that he was too old for her.

She smiled. "Miss Watson?" Harry nodded. "My name is Molly Hopper. I'm going to draw a little of your blood , in order to compare it with the evidence. Inspector Lestrade ." Greg smiled at her, and she blushed slightly.

John showed up at exactly that moment.

"Greg, Molly" then he added, more as an afterthought, which really said many things, but not "here's a good brother trying to defend his sister", "Harry."

"John!" she exclaimed, taking a few steps towards him. "Finally!"

He winced, only slightly but noticeably. "Greg, could you give us a moment, please?"

"I don't know if that's – " he really didn't want to leave them alone. John was feeling guilty enough as it was, and the DI didn't think Harry was in any frame of mind to make him feel better. Especially not if she had indeed started to drink again – and she'd admitted it herself. Not that he would have doubted Sherlock if she hadn't.

But Molly seemed to have different ideas. "But of course you can have some time alone – here, there's a lab nobody really uses anymore" and she showed them the way (three doors down, the last one on the left) while shaking her head at Greg's protests. As soon as Harry and John had disappeared inside it, she grabbed Greg's arm and dragged him into the lab next to the one she had put them in.

He wanted to ask what was going on, but decided after a look at her face that he probably shouldn't talk. Then he heard it; a low murmur, and he'd know that voice everywhere –

He looked towards the wall that separated this lab from the one John and his sister were currently occupying, and Molly mouthed, "Ventilation. Nobody really knows why – it's one of the reasons the two labs aren't used".

He nodded and decided to wait and listen.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, John turned to his sister. "Harry..." he sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

She looked at him rather angry. "So you finally decide to show up? Now?"

"Harry, if I'd "shown up" sooner, as you put it, I'd have jeopardized the whole investigation, and trust me, you can't get a better investigator then Greg, or – "

"Please, don't bring your little crush on your live-in weirdo into this. I do have enough problems, as it is."

"And why?" Now John was beginning to get angry. "Maybe because you started drinking again and have to sleep with every single lesbian you see?"

"Well, at least one of us has a sex life, or is there something you aren't telling me, Johnny?" she shot back, calling him by the nickname he'd always abhorred. He tried to draw a deep breath. This was going nowhere. He had to find some way of putting the conversation –

But then, she decided to blame one person you really shouldn't in front of John. "This is all Sherlock, isn't it? Let me guess, he was the first one to suspect me? Of course he was." And, all of a sudden, she seemed almost – with any other person, he'd have called it "worried". "Don't you see he's trying to drive a wedge between you and every other person you are close too?"

"Harry – " he said, his voice calm, but there was a certain dangerous tone in his voice, "most of the persons I'm close too I'd never have met, if not for him. I was completely alone when I returned from Afghanistan – "

"I gave you my phone – "

"Yes. But other than that... Harry, you were an alcoholic. You still are. You'd just separated from Clara, you were... I know how that may sound, but Sherlock gave me the stability you couldn't provide. He gave me a purpose in life. I was so alone and I owe him so much, more than you could possibly fathom. Without him, I'd most likely still be living in a small, crampy flat, limping, having nightmares, feeling sorry for myself."

But Harry wasn't going to be defeated that easily. "And what about the three years you thought him "dead"? Was it just a coincidence that, all of a sudden, we grew closer again? Don't you see? He just... he monopolizes you, John, and makes you forget what is important. I still can't believe that you forgave him so easily..."

"He had his reasons."

"So I hear" Harry said, with a sneer. "Like making you miserable?"

All of a sudden, John remembered why he and Harry never got on. It wasn't that they didn't like it each other, not really, but – Sherlock wasn't the monopolizing one. Harry was, had always been. And when it came to choose one annoying know-it-all who demanded constant attention and had to be treated like a child sometimes –

John may feel guilty about it, but he'd choose Sherlock in a heartbeat.

"He did it to protect us, Harry, and I don't want to talk about it." His voice made it clear that he didn't expect an answer, so Harry was silent. John bit his lip. What he wanted to ask his sister – what he desperately needed to know – was something he shouldn't have to ask, really. He couldn't...

"I didn't do it, by the way, though I'm sure Sherlock is making sure I'll get convicted right now" Harry commented, turning away from her brother.

"He isn't – " It was the wrong answer, and he knew it as soon as the words had left his mouth.

"Thank you for trusting me, Johnny. Ever thought about saying something along the lines of "I know you aren't the killer, sis?""

He knew he shouldn't say the first thing that popped into his head, but he couldn't help it. He replied sharply "Maybe you should think about why I didn't say that immediately, then."

She just looked at him, and John felt bad. She still was his sister. The one he'd looked after when their parents had been too drunk to do it. The one he'd seen through high school. The one he'd left behind when he joined the army – which might somehow explain her hostile attitude.

"Good, then, I'm going to have my blood draw and prove I didn't do it, if only to make you sorry".

Luckily, both Greg and Molly were quick enough and back in the corridor before she stormed out of the lab. John followed closely behind her, still looking guilty, and Greg couldn't shake the feeling the a barrier had just been drawn – Sherlock and John on one side, Harry on the other, though John might not even be aware of it.

Molly asked, politely, "John, could you show your sister the way to the lab where we first met?" and the doctor nodded and pointed out the way before following a grumbling Harry.

Greg looked at Molly, brows furrowed. What could she want, why did she sent –

Then she took his hand. "Greg – please, don't let her come between Sherlock and John. They need each other."

"I know, Molly" he replied, his mouth dry, squeezing her hand in return, but not letting go. "God knows, we need this two together – they are a valuable asset for the good side. And John keeps Sherlock somewhat in control."

She smiled, and then, out of the blue, kissed his cheek, still holding his hand. Colouring slightly – though she couldn't be as red as Greg's face was, he thought – she finally let go and stepped back. "Good, then. Thank you".

And with that, she turned around and followed John and his sister, leaving a hopelessly infatuated DI who had to breathe and regain his composure before going to the lab himself in her wake.


	12. Chapter 12

Molly smiled to herself as she was walking towards the lab – though she didn't particularly hurry, because she felt that John might need a little time, especially after the conversation she had... accidentally overheard – and thought about Greg. Maybe there was some hope in one of her helpless crushes, after all.

But, first, she had to take Harry's blood and compare it with the sample from the victim – a task she dreaded, because Sherlock most definitely didn't make a mistake. Which might very well have been another reason she didn't hurry to do her job.

Greg, meanwhile, had decided to call Sherlock – he figured that everything would probably go smoother when Harry didn't see a policeman in the lab. True, it might go a bit against regulations, leaving a suspect alone with her brother and a pathologist, but Greg had long ago learned that when you are friends with Sherlock Holmes, rules are at the best a recommendation.

Sherlock picked up immediately.

"Greg".

"Sherlock. We brought Harry to the lab – Molly is drawing her blood right now..." he hesitated, not sure whether to tell the consulting detective about the fight he and Molly had overheard.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, naturally sensed his hesitation immediately.

"What is it?"

"They... fought. Or something like it. She... she isn't pleased with how much time you two spend together..."

"We live together. And we are best friends. Aren't we supposed to spend a lot of time together? He even works with me, now".

Greg smiled – Sherlock sounded once again like a petulant child. And hearing him call himself and John "best friends" was nothing short of endearing.

"I know, Sherlock, it's just – you, of all people, should know something about complicated relationships between siblings."

"Mycroft and I aren't exactly "normal". I don't know whether you have noticed..."

"I might have wondered now and then, yes." But then, sadly, it was time to get serious again. As much as Greg loved the fact that he and Sherlock could just banter for hours – if John was with them, probably days – they needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Proving harry either guilty (he swallowed at the thought) or innocent, but prove something.

"Sherlock, where are you? Where have you been?"

"I realized that the murderer must have thrown away the murder weapon - nobody would walk around with a belt he'd strangled someone with for long. I really should have noticed it sooner..."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. It happens to the best of us. And, did you find something?"

"Yes. I found a belt – most likely the murder weapon."

Then he was silent, and Greg suddenly had a terrible sense of foreboding.

"It looks – Greg, it looks familiar."

The DI understood only too well what Sherlock wanted to tell him with that.

"Shit."

"Correct".

Greg sighed. "Alright, then, Bring it to the lab. By the time you get here, I'll most likely have taken in Harry for further questioning – because of the picture. Just join us whenever you can".

"Good." And with that, the consulting detective would most likely have hung up, if Greg hadn't decided to say, "And, Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"Do you know that sometimes, when people are going through a hard time, their friends will say "Everything will be alright" and they will say "thank you" and they will both feel better, even though it maybe won't be alright after all?"

"Yes?" Sherlock sounded confused.

"Everything will be alright".

He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice when he answered, "Thank you". Then they both hung up, feeling better despite everything.

Greg put his phone away and went back into St Bart's.

Taking Harry to the lab was awkward, to say the least, and John would have preferred it if Greg or Molly had accompanied them – though he couldn't help but smile a bit when he thought that she'd definitely wanted to speak to Greg alone. Maybe one of them would finally make a move; it was only too obvious that they liked each other quite a bit.

"Thank you for smiling, Johnny. God knows, this whole business is just too funny – "

"I wasn't thinking – " and of course he'd said the wrong thing again, because he really shouldn't wonder about the relationship two of his friends might or might not soon be in, after all, his sister was something like a murder suspect –

 _Relationship_. That was the problem. His and Harry's had seldom been about giving and taking – normally he gave, and she took. True, that had changed a bit when Sherlock had been gone; of course, she had been sober then. And he had needed her – somebody who hadn't been close to Sherlock. Because Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, Molly even Mycroft, they had all grieved with him, grieved for their friend. Harry had been able to be there for him because she didn't.

So, maybe, she had been right – he hadn't needed her anymore (and, again, he felt guilty) after Sherlock had returned, though not because Sherlock "monopolized" him. No, he hadn't needed her anymore because she had never been as important to him in his life (how awful that sounded) as Sherlock. She had never given him a reason to live. She had only made it easier, for a while, to live without a reason.

"John?" Harry inquired, suddenly quite concerned, apparently. "Are you alright? You seemed... lost in your head there, for a second. My God, you really are becoming more and more like him, aren't you?"

John shook his head and realized they had reached the door of the lab. He opened it and let her go in first. "Here we are."

Harry looked around with curiosity. "So this is where you first met Sherlock?"

"Yes". John's voice was controlled. He didn't want to say the wrong thing again.

Harry apparently didn't want to fight either, because she only said "Seems fitting."

"It was. It is."

"That's – oh, Johnny, I'm just going to shut up and sit down. No good can come out of us trying to talk to each other, I'd say."

Part of him wanted to correct her, but a bigger part of him knew she was right. They were too different, and they'd never been close. This bond that siblings should share – they had never had that. So, all in all, it might really be better to simply be silent.

They didn't say anything else until Molly arrived. She smiled at John and said politely to Harry "Would you please roll up both sleeves of your shirt, Miss Watson? I want to see which vein is better suited to draw blood."

"It's Harry" she answered, obeying for once, and John would have rolled his eyes, if he had dared. He might be used to strange things happening, but his sister checking out Molly Hooper while being, to all intents and purposes, treated as a murder suspect –

Just when he thought life had finally got back to normal.

Molly was professional and nice as always, drawing the blood, explaining to Harry (who was quite clearly trying to stare down her lab coat, but Molly didn't mention it) what she was going to do with it, while John didn't do anything.

Or almost anything. When Molly withdrew the needle, he couldn't help but say, "Here, let me" and put pressure on the tiny mark himself. Harry didn't acknowledge it, as usual.

Greg came in soon after, anxiously looking around for a needle – John smirked and tried to hide it. The DI had a problem with needles – he usually needed at least one beer after he'd given blood, which he tried to do, being the nice and honest policeman that he was, once a year.

"Molly, are you finished?"

"Yes, Greg, you'll have the results as soon as possible."

"Thank you. Miss Watson, would you please come with me? John..."

"It's alright. I promise not to do anything stupid. I'm going to come with you to the Yard and sit in your office like a good boy. I promise".

"Good then". They left, and Molly started the test. She couldn't help but feel that she didn't like John's sister very much – aside from the fact that she didn't realize what Sherlock and John meant to each other, she took John's help a little too granted. But she couldn't let anything distract her from the test.

The DNA was just running when Sherlock entered the lab, looking concerned.

"Hi, Sherlock."

He nodded. "Molly. I found this near the murder scene – could be the murder weapon. We have to run it for DNA".

"Of course. Should I, or – "

"Both of us, I'd say. One can run the ends, where the murderer would have left her DNA, the other one the middle – there should be DNA of the victim all over it".

They worked mostly is silence. Sherlock asked, just once, when he was busy putting the DNA he hoped (or didn't, it was all so complicated) was that of the killer in the machine, "How is John?"

To which Molly answered, matter-of-factly, "Trusting you".

They left it at that.

While they were waiting for the test to run its course, the door opened and Mike walked in. "Hello, Sherlock, Molly". Then he hesitated. Sherlock helped him out. "John is at the Yard, with Greg and his sister. She has to answer a few questions, and we are running a few tests at the moment..."

Mike had known him long enough to realize that he shouldn't ask questions concerning the tests, so he just nodded. "Can't be easy for you both."

"It isn't Sherlock answered, curtly. Then, feeling guilty, because this was Mike, and he was just trying to be nice, as always, he added, "I'm sorry – "

Mike laughed at that. "You and John are really becoming more and more like each other, really. Sherlock Holmes apologizing. Who would have thought? And there's no need. This whole situation is – difficult enough as it is."

"You are right there".

"I'm going to call John late. And please, Sherlock, don't hesitate to call me if you yourself need anything." With that, he was gone.

Sherlock shook his head. "Mike Stamford might be the only person alive who'd thank the devil in hell that he made it all warm and cosy before coming to get him – not that hell exists, and if it did, Mike Stamford would most definitely never be there."

Molly smiled at him and started to answer, but the tests were done. She gave the results to Sherlock first, who handed them to her without a word. Already fearing the worst, she took a look at them herself.

Two things were certain:

The belt was the murder weapon.

And it belonged to Harry Watson.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly let silence reign for a few moments, mainly because there was nothing she could say, even though she didn't want to leave Sherlock alone with his thoughts. The detective's mind was always running, never slowing down, and she hated to imagine what he must be thinking.

Or what this would mean for John, and for them. They had just found their way back to the trust they had shared before... Moriarty's last stand; John understood why Sherlock had to fake his death and didn't hold it against him. The good doctor hadn't even been angry at Molly for one second, even though she'd kept Sherlock's survival a secret for three years.

And now this. She had no way of knowing what each of them was thinking, but she'd meant what she said to Greg. They couldn't let John's sister tear apart the best and greatest friendship they'd ever witnessed.

Sherlock was calculating the possibility of an error, though he knew it was fruitless. But John would ask him exactly this; John would want to know if he had made a mistake, and it was better to be prepared for the question.

Needless to say, the possibility was almost non-existent.

Greg would have to arrest Harry.

And John would most likely stand in the corridor and watch his sister being brought in a cell.

Sherlock Holmes never swore, which was a distinct advantage, because otherwise, he would most likely shock Molly...

Molly. She was still here, offering silent support, as always.

"Molly, the test is... rather conclusive, I fear".

"Yes, it is." She was silent and bit her lip. "I imagine you are off to tell Greg?"

"He needs to know" Sherlock answered, and winced at how defensive it sounded. There was no reason to feel guilty about something that he wasn't responsible for. And yet that was the way he felt.

_Sentiment._

It might be better than not feeling anything at all, but sometimes, it could be rather annoying.

"Of course he needs to know, Sherlock. I didn't mean..." she took a deep breath. "You know what I didn't mean, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded and she smiled. "I'm sure John will understand. He's your friend".

"And her brother".

"It's not only the blood that counts, Sherlock. I should know – I'm a pathologist".

"Molly, I think you should still refrain from making jokes". They smiled at each other.

Then she grew serious. "Off you go then. And don't you dare to feel guilty on the way".

"I wouldn't dream of it" Sherlock answered, striding out of the lab.

While he and Molly were still doing the tests, Greg was trying to interview Harry. He had left John in his office – that is, he had sent John to his office, trusting the doctor to keep his promise – and taken Harry to the interview room she already knew.

John's sister still wasn't very cooperative. In fact, she was the opposite. She didn't even want to try to remember if anyone might have seen her the night the victim was killed. She just looked at Greg after he'd asked the question and answered "I thought that was your job?" However, Greg didn't give up – it might be unprofessional, but he had to try and try again, if only for John's sake. And Sherlock's. And probably even his own, though that was probably a selfish thought.

Meanwhile, John was pacing up and down Greg's office, feeling on edge. Harry wasn't really doing anything to help her case, in fact, she was downright hostile – and he suspected that, if Greg hadn't been the investigating officer, she would be in custody by now. And Sherlock – what was he doing? He was definitely looking for something, but whether it would exonerate Harry, or put her in jail, John had no way of knowing.

He trusted Sherlock. Of course he did.

But –

And yet –

She was his sister. He shouldn't even have to think about whether or not she was guilty –

It was then that he realized that he had been thinking the same thoughts over and over since this whole thing started, so he concentrated on pacing up and down. He managed to concentrate so much on it, in fact, that he didn't hear the door of the office open and only stopped when he heard a voice whose owner he didn't particularly want to see at the moment ask "Doctor Watson?"

He turned around with a fake smile – he didn't even care that everyone would know instantly that it was faked.

"Sergeant Donavan".

She was still Sergeant Donavan, even after Sherlock had returned, she still called him "freak", she still moaned because they had to call him in – though now, she didn't do it when Greg could hear her. But she hadn't tried to warn John about Sherlock again, and he remembered very well a rather rainy and cold afternoon about a year after Sherlock's death; he had gone to visit his friend, because there wasn't anything else to do (there never was, not for a long time, actually not until the consulting detective returned) and found her at his grave. She hadn't cried, she hadn't laid down flowers, but she had stood there, with her head bowed, for several minutes, which John knew because (he was a bit ashamed of it) he had hidden behind a tree and watched until she left.

So he figured there had to be heart underneath all that jealousy and impolite attitude.

But, still, he didn't really want to see her in a moment like this.

She knew, of course she did. She still worked with Greg, and while their DI had thankfully kept her and Anderson at a distance, ever since Harry turned out to be a person of interest, they had naturally to be informed about the developments.

To her credit, she looked embarrassed and unsure. If this had been any other day, John would have appreciated it. Now, he was occupied with more pressing matters.

She cleared her throat. "I take it DI Lestrade allowed – "

"I don't just hang around in his office without his permission while my sister is interrogated because I am bored, if that's what you mean" John responded sharply.

"It wasn't. I mean, I – " she seemed to try to think about what to say, which must admittedly be difficult while John was glaring at her.

"I'm sorry" was all she said, after a few moments of silence. True, it wasn't much, but more unspoken words hung in the silence between them. Like "I wish your sister wasn't a murder suspect". And maybe, just maybe, "I wish I didn't believe Moriarty".

So John nodded. And smiled – it was a small, but real smile. "I know. Everyone is. For me, at least. Not for her – I don't think she's made a lot of friends since yesterday."

Again, she didn't seem to know what to say at this, and he couldn't tell why he had just said that. Maybe because she wasn't a friend, so she wasn't as emotionally invested, and he could just tell her what he thought. All in all, just another strange occurrence on a rather strange and demanding day.

Then, she thought of something, and somehow, she must be surprised herself at the thought that had just popped into her head, because her eyes widened and she shuffled the papers she had in her hand – the second one had a coffee stain on it, and she never spilt her coffee if she wasn't stressed, so she must have another quarrel with Anderson, and –

Good God. He was really starting to sound like Sherlock.

Then she said "You have Sherlock, though. I'm – I'm sure he will figure out what happened."

So that was why she had been surprised. John was, too. So he just nodded, staring at her.

They both had to laugh because of that, and she commented quietly "He has a way of changing things, your friend, hasn't he?"

"Oh, yes. I think we can safely say that."

"Fancy a coffee? I was just going to fetch one for myself" she asked, and he said yes, because even though it was obvious she had just had coffee, she obviously wanted to do something for him. She smiled again and left the office, and he thought all of a sudden that while Harry being a suspect was definitely bad, it brought to light quite interesting things.

Sally was on the way to DI Lestrade's office, Doctor Watson's coffee in her right hand, when she came across the freak who was apparently walking towards the interrogation room.

Normally, they ignored each other. But she couldn't deny that, as far as this case was concerned, and considering what DI Lestrade had told her and Anderson –

He'd done the right, human thing. It was nice of him (well, maybe not exactly nice, but right all the same) to look for proof first before telling his best friend his sister was a suspect, and he apparently tried to be there for Doctor Watson by not making a big fuzz about solving the case, like he usually did. And he looked worried, for lack of a better word.

So she greeted him with a simple "Sherlock".

He seemed surprised, but answered "Donavan" and she could see his eyes rest on the cup of coffee.

"It's for – "

"John. No sugar. He's in Greg's office?"

"Yes, freak" she answered, realizing as she said it that it wasn't really the insult she had intended it as anymore. So she added "He's doing – he's alright".

"Well, he was a soldier" Sherlock mumbled, more to himself. Then he looked up at her and seemed to come to a decision. "Thank you for bringing him coffee, Sally".

"No worries" she replied, rather taken aback, and then he strode past her.

Only when she had almost reach the DI's office did she realize that she hadn't even asked him what the results of the tests done on the belt Lestrade had told her about had been. Maybe, she reflected when she remembered his worried look, she preferred not knowing for a while longer after all.

Greg was trying to get Harry to talk about her ex-lover whose picture she had had standing next to her bed, but once again, John's sister didn't want to talk.

"Violet Hunter. She has a job in the MOD. Yes, we were involved. So what?"

"Do you miss her?" Greg inquired. And for once, something like regret passed over Harry's face, but then she shrugged. "I'm not born for a monogamous lifestyle, I guess."

There was a knock on the door, and a PC looked in the room. "Sir? Sherlock Holmes would like to have word with you".

Greg's stomach clenched. If Sherlock didn't come in –

He went out immediately, took one look at Sherlock's face and knew.

"So..."

"So, Greg. You have to arrest her."

"Maybe..."

"No, Greg" Sherlock interrupted him, surprisingly gentle, "If you don't, you risk your job. You have to. Once you have, we can try to find out what really happened – we still need to identify the victim."

Greg took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He looked older than his years, Sherlock noted; he'd have to get him to go home and rest, at some point. Or maybe get Molly to try. "Good, then. I assume you don't want to come in."

No he didn't. But this was not only about John and Sherlock; it was about Greg too, and his DI deserved some support while he arrested Harry.

"I'll come in".

Greg seemed surprised, but thankful. They went in, and Harry glared at Sherlock. "What is it?"

Greg held up the belt Sherlock had just given him. "Do you recognize this?"

"As a matter of fact I do. It's my belt – went missing some time ago. Did he steal it?"

The DI ignored her comment and, instead, said, "This is the belt used to strangle the victim. Harry Watson, you are under arrest for the murder of a woman found – "

Sherlock wasn't really listening. He was thinking. There must be some way to discover that she hadn't...

But what if she had?

He came out of his head when Harry, looking rather angry, was taken out of the room, and Greg sat down, sighing.

"So... who is going to tell John?"

Sherlock had heard John scream his name when it looked like he jumped off a building; he had heard Greg telling him that he was under arrest; he had heard Mycroft berate him for his drug use for hours.

But still – this must be the worst words he'd ever heard.


	14. Chapter 14

Greg and Sherlock walked towards the DI's office, both lost in their thoughts. Neither of them was particularly keen to tell John they had just arrested his sister, even though he should probably have expected it; but, as Sherlock had learned through his encounters with Moriarty, expecting something was one thing, it actually quite another. He'd realized that as soon as he'd been sitting in a hotel in South Africa, blonde, wearing glasses and using a different name.

He sighed. Emotions were hard to predict, and even though he knew John well, probably better than anyone else, he didn't know how his blogger would react. Hoping, but not thinking, that his DI would have an answer, he asked, "How do you think he'll react?"

Greg shrugged his shoulders. "I may not be a "high-functioning sociopath"" – here he smiled, because no one who knew Sherlock believed the "title" he had once upon a time used for himself anymore, nowadays – "but when it comes to predicting how a man will react when we arrest his sister for murder... I've been in the force for thirty years, and the only thing I can tell you is that you never know how anyone will react really".

"That's why I kept myself as clear as possible from sentiment... It's too unpredictable"

"But, since you used the past tense, you must already have realized that it's not as easy as it sounds" Greg shot back.

"No, it isn't. Mostly because some people just don't leave you alone, no matter how hard you try".

Greg flashed him a small smile. "I'm going to take that as a compliment." Then, because they were only one corridor away from the DI's office, they fell silent.

John had sat down after Sally brought him the coffee and tried to think logically. Harry was innocent – he had to believe that. So, who could have done it? Maybe someone was following her, and had seen the victim scratch his sister, so he'd used the opportunity...

But, then, the murderer must know Harry, therefore, she had to know who it was, even though she probably didn't realize it herself. Maybe, if they tried, she would – If he could somehow persuade her to cooperate. Harry had never been good when dealing with any authority; maybe their alcoholic parents were to blame, John didn't know, but that was how it was. Show her someone who was able to exercise some power and she'd immediately take a dislike to him.

He had come so far in his reflections when he heard the office door open and turned around. Greg and Sherlock walked in, and it turned out that they didn't have to break the news to him gently, because John just looked at them and knew what had happened.

He had never seen Sherlock this silent, and Greg's face wore the same apologetic expression John remembered quite well from when he had to arrest Sherlock.

"So she is..." he said, trying to keep his steady and almost succeeding.

Sherlock nodded. "I found a belt in a bin, a few streets from the crime scene. The DNA matches; it is the murder weapon, and it belongs to Harry – she admitted it and the DNA proves it, the DNA that was found where the killer should have held the belt..." Of course, if it was her belt, her DNA on it would be explainable; but still, the chances of it being used in the murder of a woman Harry had been seen with...

That was, if somebody was trying to frame her...

Greg interrupted his thoughts. "John, she is under arrest, but far from convicted. We didn't have a choice".

"I know you didn't, Greg" John said, quietly, but while Sherlock knew that John was aware that "they" (and Sherlock was rather sure that Greg had meant "Sherlock and I" as opposed to "my colleagues and I" which he found quite touching, in a way) really had had no other choice, accepting it emotionally was another thing, and John seemed far from it as present. He bit his lip, unsure what to say or do.

"Do you want to see here?" Greg helped out, realizing that the awkward silence wasn't good for anyone. "It can be arranged."

John took a deep breath, then shook his head. "I should... I definitely should, but I don't want another scene like the one in the lab..."

Sherlock looked at Greg for confirmation that John was talking about the fight in the lab the DI had told him about, he nodded ever so slightly.

The consulting detective didn't know what to say. Normally, he would dash out and look for clues, but the problem was – until the victim was identified, there was precious little he could do. And try as he might to act more "human" – John was usually the one who helped him out in moments like this. His blogger definitely couldn't give him any advice now, though.

Luckily, Greg stepped in. "We can't do anything about the situation at the moment – not until the victim is identified, at least. It's" – he glanced at his watch – "almost five o' clock in the afternoon, John hasn't got much rest and I don't think Sherlock slept since this whole thing began. Why don't you go home and try to relax a bit?"

Sherlock shot him a glance to know if there was any other option – he'd never been able to sit still for long when on a case, and Greg knew that – but his DI's expression just said, "Do what I say; John needs it".

He cleared his throat. "Greg is right. John? What do you think?"

The doctor had turned and was staring out the window. Sherlock's voice startled him. "Yes... I suppose... We really can't do anything, and I don't think Harry would feel safer if I stay". He said it resignedly, and once again, Sherlock thought that he'd never understand Harry Watson. He definitely felt safer whenever his doctor was with him.

Greg tried not to look relieved, but didn't quite manage it. "Good, then. As soon as..."

"Wait" John interrupted him – apparently not even his sister being in a cell could stop him from looking after his friends "how much rest did you get last night?"

Greg looked taken aback. He finally settled on a diplomatic "More than you, I think".

"You should go home too, then. I'm sure Donavan can contact you when they find the tattoo-parlour."

Greg thought it better not to argue with John; and he could really need a few hours of sleep. He only hoped that Sherlock and John would be able to talk to each other – John might not notice it, but he needed his best friend now more than anything.

They left Scotland Yard without talking much; in fact, except for quiet Goodbyes, they didn't say anything at all, though Greg's look certainly told Sherlock to "Take Care. Of both of you".

Sherlock tried to tell him "I will" while dragging John, who was again lost in his thoughts, towards a cab. The DI followed them with his eyes, then sighed and turned around to walk to his car.

John didn't say anything during the cab ride; he didn't even wait for Sherlock to pay, he just got out and made his way into 221B – Sherlock was rather sure he'd go straight to his room and stay there for a few hours, hopefully sleep.

When the consulting detective entered the house, he found Mrs. Hudson looking rather concerned at the door of her flat.

"Sherlock, what happened?" she asked as soon as he stepped over the threshold, "John just came in, looking very pale, and didn't answer when I asked him what's wrong... I don't think he even realized I was there. Did you two have another domestic?"

Sherlock shook his head, though he couldn't help the small smile that spread over his face at her words. Mrs. Hudson made everything better just by being there.

"No. We didn't fight, Mrs. Hudson. It's just..."

He hesitated, trying to find the right words. She looked at him worriedly.

"Come on in, Sherlock dear. I'll make us a cuppa and you can tell me everything."

"But John..." he answered.

"Don't worry, I heard his bedroom door slam, and you know how he is when he does that. He wants to be alone for a while."

He shouldn't be surprised, really; if there was one thing he'd learnt in the course of his staying at Baker Street, it was never to underestimate his landlady. So he nodded and followed her into her kitchen.

Before long, they were sitting at the kitchen table, two steaming cups in front of them, and Sherlock was telling Mrs. Hudson everything that had occurred in the last twenty-four hours.

"Oh dear" she sighed when he was finished. The worst thing was, she supposed, that she felt far more sorry for her boys than for John's sister. She didn't particularly like her – she could remember how stressed John had been due to her addiction before Sherlock's disappearance all too well. It wasn't, she thought, as she looked at Sherlock, that she had anything against addicts per se; but Sherlock, as opposed to Harry, had never really asked for help, had actually refused it, whereas Harry had made a habit out of demanding John to help her every single time she had a problem. And now she was drinking again. And a murder suspect.

Poor John. And poor Sherlock. Her poor poor boys.

"So, do you thinks she did?" she asked.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged. "The evidence points in her direction... and I'm not sure whether my doubts stem from an actual reason or my friendship with John."

She patted his hand. "Everything's going to be alright, you'll see. But your nice Inspector is right, you need to rest. Why don't you go up, and later, when you both" she put an emphasize on the "both" so Sherlock would know there would be no arguing over this "got a bit of sleep, I'll bring you something to eat?"

He smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome, my boy. Now, up you go" and she ushered him out of the room and up the stairs.

John was nowhere to be seen, and the flat was quiet, so Sherlock hoped he was asleep. He sat down on the sofa – he was sure he wouldn't be able to sleep, not even if he tried – and simply took his violin in his hands. Even if he couldn't play it for fear of disturbing John's rest, holding it helped him to think too.

John, however, wasn't asleep. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe slowly so Sherlock would think he was asleep – he was rather sure the consulting detective could tell whether he was awake.

He was in something close to shock, he thought; this all seemed so surreal. And for a life like John's, that was saying a lot. He just couldn't understand how or why Harry should... But, then again, she wouldn't. True, she was... not easy to get along with, but killing someone? Just like that? No. It couldn't be.

After about two hours, he gave up and decided to check on Sherlock. Knowing him, he probably wasn't sleeping, and John was right; his friend was sitting on the sofa, violin in his hands.

"Are you not going to play?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at him. "I thought you were resting."

"Normally, you aren't that considerate."

Sherlock looked a bit hurt, and John felt bad for a moment. "I am aware that you need rest now and then, John."

"I know, but I can't sleep." The doctor sighed. "Do you have any ideas how to exonerate Harry?"

"We need more evidence".

Then, and only then, did John truly realize that Sherlock might actually think his sister guilty; until now, he hadn't really thought that his best friend could be of another opinion than believing her innocent.

"Sherlock..." he asked, slowly. "You don't think she did it, right?"

Sherlock carefully put his violin on the sofa, stood up and shrugged. "John, I can't theorize without..."

"I am not asking you to theorize, Sherlock. I am asking you whether you think that my sister is capable of this".

"I believe" Sherlock said, slowly, trying to be diplomatic, hoping John would understand, "that everyone..."

"That's not what I asked. She is my sister, and I am asking you as your best friend. And I'm telling you she's my sister, and she couldn't do it."

"Are you telling yourself this because you are actually entertaining the possibility..."

It was the wrong thing to say. All the anger that had been building up in his blogger came out at these words.

"No, I am not. And you shouldn't be either! You are my friend! Can't you once, just once, act like a human being? Good God, how can you just stand there and – and – " he was pacing up and down, getting more agitated by the minute.

"But, know, the great Sherlock Holmes would rather sit on his sofa, thinking about how he could get my sister in jail, all while holding his precious violin..." here John bent down and grabbed the instrument.

And then it happened.

The violin slipped from his grasp, and, because he had been in the middle of waving it at Sherlock, flew across the room in an elegant curve.

It landed near the door.

Broken and useless.

Sherlock stared at the instrument he'd had since Mycroft gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday, the instrument that calmed him, helped him think...

The instrument he'd never be able to play again. He looked at John. John looked shocked, but Sherlock didn't feel like he could talk to him right now.

So he did what John normally did, after they'd had a fight.

He grabbed his coat and stormed out.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock stormed out, trying to tell himself that it was perfectly understandable, that John was angry because his sister was a murder suspect, that it was an accident, that –

But no matter what he tried to tell himself, there was always one thought that kept pushing the others away.

_He broke my violin._

The violin had been the one thing he'd always kept, if he didn't count the skull; the one thing he'd never let go, and now it was in pieces, and –

He passed Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to have heard the door slam and apparently wanted to find out what was going on; a question was forming on her lips, but he was already out the door.

He stood outside the house for a moment.

Where should he go?

But, then again, there was really only one place he could go right now.

John stood in their living room, staring at the smashed violin, not really comprehending what he had done, not even after Sherlock left. He hadn't meant to break the instrument, of course not. It had just slipped. But, nonetheless, it was his fault. He shouldn't have waved it around just because he happened to be angry...

He hadn't even been angry with Sherlock. He was angry with the whole situation, at Harry's lifestyle, at God, the world – it was difficult to say, really. But he was most definitely not angry with Sherlock, not because of something that definitely wasn't the consulting detective's fault. He solved crimes; that was what he did, and if the trail of clues happened to lead to John's sister...

He shouldn't have shouted at him. And he definitely shouldn't have broken his beloved violin.

Sherlock loved that instrument; in a way, it was a part of him. When he was stressed, when he was stuck on a case, when he was simply thinking about something like an experiment, when he was bored, when he was feeling an emotion he couldn't express in words – he would play. The music would help him, he would get lost in a world of his own –

And John could never forget how often Sherlock had helped him sleep with the soft melody he'd composed just for that purpose. Just last night...

And now he'd broken it, any maybe he'd broken their friendship in the process, too. All for a sister – though it pained him to admit it – that wasn't as dear to him as Sherlock was, and never would be.

He had to go after Sherlock, he had to apologize, he had to explain –

But he didn't get very far, because Mrs. Hudson was standing in the door of 221B and looking down the street.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, unsure, "Did you see Sherlock?"

She turned around, and all of a sudden, John felt like a little boy again, faced by an angry mother. "Yes. I saw him. He stormed out and took a cab. I don't know where he went. Did you two have a fight?"

He swallowed. "Yes, we did." He couldn't tell her what he'd done, not yet.

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Why don't you come in? I already spoke to Sherlock, but I think you need somebody to talk too."

John nodded, and followed her into her flat; he strongly suspected that Sherlock didn't want to talk to him now. He would call him, once they were both ready.

Sherlock spent the cab ride lost in his head, thoughts swirling. He knew John hadn't wanted it, hadn't wanted this – but, still – he was his best friend – shouldn't he try to see Sherlock's point of view, at least? Or should Sherlock try to understand John better?

Getting a text from Mycroft didn't make things easier.

_I am informed you just left 221B Baker Street looking agitated and took a cab. What is going on?  
Mycroft_

He answered _John needs some time alone, I am going to Greg's. S_ and hoped that Mycroft would understand that he didn't want to talk about it. Apparently his brother did, because he didn't get another text.

The cab stopped in front of Greg's apartment building, he paid and walked slowly to his DI's flat. He didn't really know what to say, just like he didn't know what to think. But at least he'd be with a friend.

He let himself in; Greg gave him a key as soon as he'd returned, a favour Sherlock repaid by giving him the key to 221B Baker Street – John certainly never asked how the DI could come into their flat at all hours, so it seemed to be fine.

He knew instantly that Greg must be asleep; the flat was completely quiet, and –

Apparently his DI had developed something like a sixth sense when it came to him, because all of a sudden he heard a sleepy "Sherlock?" from the bedroom, right before Greg stumbled into the living room, still in the shirt and trousers he'd worn when they'd said goodbye, so John must have been right about him being quite tired...

Sherlock opened his mouth, to apologize or to explain, he wasn't sure, but Greg just looked at him and saw something – impossible to say what exactly he saw – but he was fully awake a second later. "Sherlock? What happened? Is John alright?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes. I mean, all things considered, he's holding up. He's at home".

"Then – are you alright? What –"

"We had a fight. I just – I needed to get away for a while, and I thought – " Sherlock looked so sad, suddenly, and Greg had a bad feeling. Sherlock and John had fought before, but the consulting detective had always been angry. Or unrelenting. Or confused. Or all three. But never sad. There had to be something else.

But he knew his friend well enough to realize that he'd probably get no answer if he asked him now. So he opted for "Do you want coffee?"

"Yes, please. Black – "

"Two sugars. I know, Sherlock" His consulting detective gave him a small, pained half-smile and Greg went into his kitchen to make the coffee even more worried than before. He couldn't interpret the look on Sherlock's face – he'd never seen it before. What could have happened? He made a coffee for himself, just to be on the safe side – he'd probably need all the strength he could get.

When he came back, Sherlock sat on the sofa, his coat still on. He took it off when he saw Greg come back, though.

It was only when he put the coffee in Sherlock's hands that he looked at him, a little bit like a lost child, and said, quietly, "John broke my violin".

"He did what?" Greg asked, bewildered. And a little angry. This whole story was a mess, yes, but John couldn't go and let it all out on Sherlock – he'd only done his job, after all. And to break his violin... Sherlock had always had that violin, even when he'd been a homeless addict, when he and Greg had first met, and the DI had been surprised that a man who only seemed to live for the next high should still keep a valuable instrument, even if he could probably buy a month's supply of cocaine if he sold or pawned it.

That mystery, at least, was finally solved a second later, when Sherlock added, even more quietly, "Mycroft gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday".

"Sherlock..."

"It was an accident."

"Yes, but still..."

"I told you, it was an accident". Sherlock seemed to make an effort to be nice and understanding, even though he looked like he could cry, and Greg had never believed he'd ever want to hit John Watson, but he didn't know what he'd do if the doctor stood in front of him right now.

"How did it happen?" he asked, to mask his anger, and because he and Sherlock were both detectives, and talking like this about something made it easier for both of them.

"He... he was angry because when he came back into the living room, I was thinking about the case, like I do about any other case, and I didn't really understand it, but apparently I should have immediately supposed Harry is innocent because she's his sister..." he looked confused, and Greg squeezed his shoulder again, just like he'd done only yesterday – had it really only been yesterday? It seemed much longer – and said "It is difficult to understand, Sherlock, that's how emotions work. You see, he doesn't want to believe it – "

"That's what I told him – or something like it – that he had already considered the possibility, and then he – he got angrier, and he picked up my violin and waved it at me while telling me all this stuff about how I shouldn't just be sitting there and holding my violin – " he took a sip of his coffee and looked on the floor. "I had only been holding it because I didn't want to disturb him with playing it."

There wasn't really anything to say after that, so Greg nodded and took a sip of his coffee too. "and then?"

"He took my violin and he waved it around, and it slipped out of his hand, and fell on the floor – it's broken. I don't think it can be repaired."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"For what? John is the one with the sister in a cell."

"But I know what the violin means to you."

"Yes, I suppose you do – still, it was only an instrument."

"That's not the point. The point is – " Greg actually squeezed Sherlock's hand, this time – "I'm sorry and I want you to know it".

"Oh. Good then." Sherlock nodded and apparently didn't know where to look, so Greg cleared his throat. "They still haven't found the tattoo parlour yet, and the victim's DNA is in no database, but we have to get some results sooner or later. I send Molly home, before I went. She could hardly stay awake."

"You apparently couldn't either." Greg smiled. "Well, that's how it is when you get old.

"I never thought of you as "old" – not with Mycroft in the picture."

"You are aware your brother is younger than me, right?"

"You will find that that's beside the point, Greg".

They both chuckled a bit, and then Greg said, "You can stay here, of course. The whole night. Then, tomorrow, after you've both had some rest, you can talk about it, alright?"

Sherlock sighed. "Alright then. But I don't sleep while – "

"Don't even start. This day has been nothing if not emotionally exhausting, and you need rest just like we all do."

"But, first things first. Sherlock, be honest – have you eaten anything today? At all?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"I had a piece of toast in the morning" Sherlock answered, sounding defensive.

"Good. I will make us something to eat, then, and afterwards, you'll lie down for a bit."

Sherlock didn't protest, which made Greg realize that the consulting detective was still shaken and definitely more tired than he let on. So he just went in the kitchen and made pasta.

As it turned out, Greg could cook rather good pasta, and Sherlock finished it, because he found himself to be hungry. His DI had some too, though not too much – he probably wanted to keep his weight to have a chance with Molly, not that he needed any help there – and afterwards, when Greg was carrying the plates into the kitchen, he said over his shoulder "Lie down a bit. It will do you some good."

Sherlock obeyed after removing his shoes, though he didn't expect to sleep.

Greg returned a few minutes later, sat down on the armchair – probably to make sure Sherlock wouldn't stand up as soon as his back was turned – and started to read a book. Without really noticing it, Sherlock was lulled to sleep by his presence and the rustling of the pages.

After fifteen minutes, Greg looked up from the book to find his consulting detective peacefully asleep. He looked younger, somehow, and Greg's heart clenched a bit at the thought that he and John weren't at the best of terms right now. And when he thought about Sherlock's violin, of course.

And, just like that, he knew exactly what to do.

He stood up slowly and quietly – though he didn't think that anything could wake him up right now, he looked exhausted – and went to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He had two calls to make.


	16. Chapter 16

Greg made sure to stand as far away from the bedroom door as possible; Sherlock needed some rest, and he didn't want to disturb him. However, Greg didn't want to wait with the calls. There were two people he had to talk to right now (not Molly, she would surely not appreciate to be called by a DI at nine pm, he reminded himself).

He dialled number four on his speed dial – Mycroft. The older Holmes knew most likely by this point that his younger brother had left the house looking confused and sad, and it would be better if he found out the truth behind it from Greg then figuring it out himself; the DI didn't want to imagine what it would mean for John, sister in custody or not, if Mycroft found out he'd broken his brother's most cherished possession.

Mycroft picked up after the first ring, confirming Greg's suspicion that he knew something was wrong.

"Inspector".

Greg sighed inwardly. No matter how close he got to Sherlock, no matter that his consulting detective had by now learned his first name, no matter how often Mycroft had him kidnapped – he'd never call him "Greg".

"Mycroft. I assume you're aware that Sherlock's at my flat?"

"I was informed he'd left 221B in a hurry, so I texted him. He told me where he'd be". Anyone who didn't know the older Holmes might have thought that he didn't care, but Greg heard the excellently disguised worry in the other man's voice.

"Do you know why?"

"No. He didn't tell me anything except for his destination. And that John needed some time alone."

"He broke Sherlock's violin. It was an accident, but from the way Sherlock talked about it, I don't think he'll ever be able to play it again". Greg figured it would be best to just get it over with. It wasn't like he could exactly "prepare" Mycroft for the news. He'd probably guess what Greg had to say halfway into the explanation.

As a reward of sorts, he was treated to something he'd never have thought the older Holmes capable of: a stunned silence.

After a few moments Mycroft asked, quietly, "I take it that John's sister's DNA was found at the crime scene, then?"

"How do you know?" Greg asked, automatically, though it was of course the wrong question to ask a member of Sherlock's family.

"He called me to obtain a sample from John's DNA, and since he'd never suspect his blogger of any crime, it was clear he needed to compare it with a sample he supposed to belong to a relative of John's – and Harry Watson is the only relative the doctor has".

"Of course" Greg replied.

"So why did you call me, Inspector?"

"Because I think you should know that your little brother is rather upset right now and that John – while to blame for the current situation – is in no state of mind to be threatened because of it."

Mycroft chuckled. "I wouldn't lay a hand on John. Or threaten him, for that matter. Not about making Sherlock feel bad." Then, after a small hesitation, he added, "as long as it happens only once, that is".

A shiver ran down Greg's spine. For all their demonstrative not-caring, the Holmes family were nothing if not fond of each other.

"He is angry. At the world. And he definitely didn't do it on purpose."

"You don't have to defend him, Inspector, I am aware that having a sister in custody might even upset a man used to stress like John Watson".

"Good, then." Greg was getting impatient to get off the phone; he still had that other call to make. And normally, the older Holmes would hang up about now, polite but aloof as always.

But Mycroft surprised him. "Will he stay the night?"

"Sorry?"

"Will he sleep at your flat tonight?" Now nobody could have missed the concern in Mycroft's voice, and Greg smiled to himself.

"Yes, he's already sleeping, as a matter of fact."

"Good. Take... care of him, will you, Inspector. Please".

"Of course" Greg replied slowly.

"Excellent. Goodbye, Inspector" With that Mycroft finally hung up, and Greg shook his head. Really, if these two could just talk to each other, actually talk to each other, once...

But there was still this other call. And it would be much more difficult to make.

And that, considering he'd just spoken to the British Government, was saying something.

Mrs Hudson listened to everything John had to say, even to his rather incoherent rambling about how "Sherlock didn't get it, but I shouldn't have got angry, and now he'll never forgive me and..." for almost half an hour before she interrupted him.

"John... I'm sure Sherlock understands that you got a little angry because your sister is a murder suspect".

"But I broke his violin", John replied, almost whining, in the same tone Sherlock did when somebody just wouldn't understand what he meant, and Mrs. Hudson smiled. She was sure this wouldn't tear her boys apart; their bond was too strong for that.

"Yes, you did. And he liked it, a lot, in fact. But, when it comes down to it, it is a thing, John, and you are his friends. You can easily buy a new violin, you can't buy new friends".

"I don't think "easily" is the right word to use – if I start to save money for it now, I might be able to replace it before we retire..." John answered.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "I don't think he's as concerned about the violin..." here John snorted, which she chose wisely to ignore "as about you and Harry and what that means for your relationship".

John had long ago given up on correcting people when they mistook him and Sherlock for a couple, especially when it came to their house– landlady. So he didn't say anything about the word "relationship" and instead sighed. "Mrs Hudson – that's another problem. I – how can we fix it when I just broke his beloved instrument, even if it is only a "thing"? And I barely talked to him since this whole – thing started, well, I shouted at him, right before it happened, but I don't think that counts..." he chuckled mirthlessly.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him. "Call him. Try to explain. He'll forgive you. That's what friends are for. And then you find out what really happened."

"You are right, Mrs. Hudson. I have to find out where he is and how he's doing. God knows where he could be..." Then, all of a sudden, it was clear to John. There were really only a few places Sherlock would go, or at least John could imagine him to go after they had had a fight – normally it was John storming out.

He could actually only think of four places – Greg's flat, wherever Mycroft happened to be, St Bart'S or the Yard.

He dismissed Mycroft; Sherlock might turn to his brother for help when he had no other choice, but in a case like this – it was unlikely.

St Bart's or the Yard – no, he wouldn't go there as long as there was no news. He hated hanging around a place without being able to do anything. And Greg would have called John as soon as they'd identified the victim, even if Sherlock had told him all about their fight.

That only left Greg's. He stood up, drained the last of his tea and thanked Mrs. Hudson. "No worries, my boy. No go and make things right". He smiled and went back into their living room, where he carefully picked up the violin – it had broken into three pieces, and his heart clenched when he thought about the many times Sherlock had treated him to one of his compositions – and laid it on the table.

Then he decided to call Greg before dashing to his flat – their DI could tell him whether Sherlock was really there, and how he was doing. He didn't want to call Sherlock unprepared – he didn't want to make the situation worse.

Greg was just about to call John – he had to talk to the doctor, he had to make an effort to help them reconcile – when Sherlock's blogger called him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There could only be one reason for John's calling. He picked up, trying to sound neutral.

"John".

"Greg". The doctor lost no time. "Is he with you?" For a moment, Greg considered asking John "Who?" just because the doctor had broken Sherlock's violin, but then he thought that he didn't deserve to be punished, not in a situation like this.

"Yes, he is" he simply answered instead.

John sighed – it was a sigh of relief more than anything else, Greg noted – and replied "Thank God. I – I don't know if he's told you about – "

"I know you broke his violin, if that's what you mean."

"It was an accident".

"That's what he told me". Then, because Greg couldn't help it, he added, "Was it?"

"How can you think that I did it on purpose?" John sounded angry, and hurt, and Greg was relieved. At least Sherlock had been right.

"I'm sorry, John. It's just... this whole – it's not easy, that's what I mean. And if you got angry because Sherlock was the reason..."

"He isn't. The reason for that is that, in the best scenario, Harry got drunk with a woman and was scratched by her when she tried to make a move, or something like that." John took a deep breath.

"Is – is he okay?"

"Yes. As far as I can tell, that is. He's asleep. He must have been more tired than we realized."

"Well, it's certainly been exhausting..." then John's flat became strangely flat. "Do you think he'll be able to forgive me?"

"I don't think he blames you, not really. But if I were you, I'd start saving money, just in case".

"That's what I told Mrs Hudson – that and the fact that I'll be probably saving money for the next twenty years." He exhaled slowly. "Thank you, Greg. For taking care of him. I'll – I'll come around tomorrow morning, alright? He needs some rest."

"He does" Greg agreed, "and so do we. Till then."

"Yes, till then" John repeated and hung up, feeling much better than before his call. Sherlock was safe, and he was resting. All he needed to do was to try and get some sleep himself.

Greg smiled. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine. He took a spare pillow and blanket and tucked Sherlock in on the couch – his consulting detective didn't even move, so he must be really exhausted – and then went to bed himself. He might as well get some rest while he could.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day.


	17. Chapter 17

John managed to fall asleep after hours of tossing and turning, wrecked by regret for breaking Sherlock's violin, and feeling guilty for caring more about an instrument than about his sister, even though he could do nothing against it. He had to make things right, he had to apologize, he had to... he had to get Sherlock back where he belonged. Three years without his best friend had been quite enough.

Greg, despite having been fast asleep when Sherlock let himself in, had problems to doze off again as well. He didn't like it when his golden duo fought, and he didn't like to see his consulting detective so vulnerable. After about an hour, he knew what to do and went quietly back into the living room. After ten minutes of watching Sherlock's silhouette in the dark and hearing his breathing, he could barely keep his eyes open and stumbled back into bed. He'd had trouble sleeping because of him before – during the three years he'd thought he'd never him again – but this time, he'd been able to look at him, to know he was alright.

Sherlock slept soundly that night; he hadn't really slept in a few days, and the emotional strain of the case was taking its toll.

Harry, who didn't know anything about the fight, didn't sleep at all. It was impossible for her to sleep in the cell; she couldn't stand how cramped it was, the bare walls, the barred window. She couldn't believe that John hadn't come since –

No, that wasn't right. She didn't want to believe it, but, in a way, she'd expected it. She hadn't exactly been an understanding sister, ever since Sherlock returned. She had been what she'd always been – jealous of her brother.

When they were little, she had been jealous because everyone seemed to love him, because he managed to sometimes talk their parents into drinking less, because he had far more friends than she had.

And – and – it was difficult to explain, really. But somehow... Even his attempts to get her of the booze had made her resent him. She didn't like to be babied, didn't like to be told what to do. But whenever she'd needed help, she'd called him. He'd always come. Because that was what he did. He'd always been the responsible one, the one people assumed they could trust. He had become a bloody army doctor, as if he hadn't been enough of a hero already. And left her alone in the process, though she couldn't – at least shouldn't – blame him for that. And when he'd left she'd already been married to Clara, so he might have thought there'd be someone to take care of her...

And then he'd come back, broken, feeling useless, and she should have been the one to take care of him, but couldn't – instead she'd once again been the one who called him drunk – and he'd met Sherlock Holmes, and somehow, this incredibly unstable and crazy man had given him the stability he needed, the stability she hadn't been able to provide. That a man as ... ordinary, in certain ways, as her brother, could ever be friends with someone like him... She'd never have thought.

Maybe it was no surprise that she and Sherlock didn't get on. She was jealous once again, but this time because someone else was everything for her brother that she should have been.

She passed the night with this and other thoughts, all the while wishing for a drink.

John woke up around six thirty, still feeling tired but at least somewhat refreshed. He knew he should probably let Sherlock and Greg sleep, but he had to talk to the detective now; he couldn't wait. He showered quickly, didn't even take the time to drink a cup of tea and took a cab.

He spent the cab ride feeling nervous and apprehensive. He didn't know what to say – he only knew that he had to speak with Sherlock, even if the consulting detective didn't want to – he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his temples. The thought of Sherlock not wanting to talk to him was almost physically painful. He had to fix this, at all costs. And if that meant never to be able to buy another bottle of milk, because he saved all his money for a new violin, so be it.

Sherlock had already been awake for almost an hour by this point – surprised he'd even slept at all. At least he felt well rested, even if he still thought about the fight he'd had with John, and about his violin – his heart would have clenched, if such a silly thing would be anatomically possible. Deciding that he needed to distract himself from everything, he made breakfast for his DI.

Greg stumbled into the kitchen around six, bleary-eyed, but apparently having slept well, and dressed. "Morning, Sherlock".

"Good morning". The DI's eyebrows rose when he took in the breakfast Sherlock had prepared. "You know how to do something in a kitchen that has nothing do with experimenting on body parts?"

"Of course. I did manage to keep myself alive for some years before I met Mrs. Hudson or you or John."

"But only barely."

Sherlock huffed, not answering, and Greg smiled. His consulting detective looked definitely better than he had last night.

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning away to grab two cups for the coffee and so he couldn't see his face, Greg suspected, and said, "Thank you. For last night. I appreciate it."

The DI was touched. Sherlock rarely thanked people – in fact, normally he'd just accept everything one did for him wordlessly, even if he had made an effort ever since he came back. He smiled, even if the consulting detective couldn't see it, he'd probably hear it in his voice, and answered, "No problem. Any time." Then he hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. He decided not to mention his call to Mycroft, and simply said "John called me after you'd fallen asleep."

Sherlock was still fiddling with the cups, but his shoulders tensed. Greg bit his lip. "He was worried about you. And he's sorry. I – we – decided he'd come around today. If you don't mind."

"I suppose it's for the best..." Sherlock replied, finally turning around with two steaming cups, looking unconcerned, and Greg winced. He'd never really liked it when Sherlock tried to put a wall between himself and his emotions.

"Sherlock – he wants to apologize. He is truly sorry. He knows how much the violin meant to you."

Sherlock nodded, his face relaxing, and Greg was relieved. "I'm sorry too. I tried to tell him, but – "

"He'll listen, trust me. He is your friend. Friends don't stop being friends because they had one fight."

"What if one friend was responsible for – "

"Even if it comes to that, you aren't the responsible one, Harry is."

"But..."

"No buts." Greg replied, sternly, and only realized how sternly when Sherlock looked at him with a certain mocking glint in his eyes and answered, "Of course, Inspector".

Greg shook his head, chuckling. "Sorry. Force of habit".

"With Donavan and Anderson on your team, I can't imagine why"

They both laughed and sat down, and Greg forced Sherlock to eat a proper breakfast. "Sherlock, you don't even know if any new information will come to light today, so you might as well eat".

They had just finished when there was a timid knock on the door.

Greg shot Sherlock a look, he nodded and his DI went to open the door.

"John" he said, trying to sound as normal as possible, though this situation was anything but.

John swallowed. "Greg". His eyes asked _How is he?,_ the DI's answered _As well as can be expected._

Sherlock had by then strolled into the living room, and John pushed past Greg. The DI cleared his throat.

"I am going to... take a walk. Just call me anytime."

"Sure, Greg" Sherlock answered, giving him a small smile before focusing on John.

Their DI left his flat, decided to get another coffee at Starbucks, and hoped that these two would manage to reconcile.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I am really sorry – " But the consulting detective interrupted him, trying but not quite succeeding, John noted, to appear bored.

"It's alright John. I realize that it is a normal reaction to be angry when your sister has been arrested. There is no need to –"

"Yes there is" John replied. Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "I let you get away once with the whole "I don't care thing" and what happened?" His best friend winced, remembering John's "You machine!"" quite vividly. "I just – I – I can't lose you again Sherlock. Not now, not ever. I know that it might be understandable that I'm angry, but breaking your violin, even if it was an accident – that's inexcusable. I'll make it up to you, I promise. You might have to wait a few decades, but I could save enough money to buy you a new one eventually..."

At this, Sherlock, surprisingly, laughed. "John, you don't have to buy me a new one because you feel bad. If you do, let's just pester Mycroft long enough so he'll buy me another one."

John laughed too, feeling incredibly relieved. "Good, then. But if Mycroft decides to kill me and hide my body were no one can find it when he finds out I broke your violin..."

"Don't worry. I'm sure Mycroft doesn't want any more danger nights. And we still have a scary Inspector of Scotland Yard on our side."

"Greg can scare Mycroft? I highly doubt that."

"Not Mycroft – but the people who'd be supposed to make you disappear. Mycroft never does any legwork himself, you know that."

At this, they laughed again, and John let himself fall on the sofa. "Thank God. When you stormed out yesterday, I thought – "

"Yes. Me too."

John looked up, then took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it for a moment. "Well, now that that's cleared up..."

Sherlock got a text and he shot John an apologetic look as he took out his phone. "Maybe Greg wants to know how we are..." Suddenly, the consulting detective seemed struck speechless.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?" John inquired, concerned.

His best friend passed him the phone wordlessly, and John had to admit that he wouldn't have expected a text like that either.

 _We found out the identity of the victim – more information at the Yard._  
Hope you're alright, freak.  
SD.


	18. Chapter 18

Sally Donovan wasn't a friend of „the freak", as she'd dubbed him as soon as he'd appeared. She'd never been happy that DI Lestrade let him have a look on crime scenes.

And then he'd "died" and it had been her fault. Or, at least, that' was how she'd interpreted it, no matter what Anderson – who got more and more annoying, these days – had said. He'd jumped and why? Because she'd been the first to be suspicious of his gifts, the first to voice what they all thought.

Of course, she'd tried to forget everything, as soon as the funeral was over – although she had visited his grave. She'd tried to keep things with Anderson as they'd always been, even though every time he touched her, she couldn't help but hear "So is Sergeant Donovan" in her head.

And then, he came back. He came back and proved everyone wrong, and she didn't know what to – no, in fact, she did exactly know what to think. He'd allowed to be called a fraud, just to help his friends, just to beat Moriarty. And nothing she could do would ever be as brave as committing suicide (as DI Lestrade had once told her, soon after Sherlock had come back, when she'd been stupid enough to call the amateur detective a "freak" in front of him) as to jump off a building (or pretend to) and live three years as a dead man just to keep your friends safe.

So, rather against her will, she'd grown to respect the "consulting detective". Even though she still called him freak – old habits were hard to break, after all. But she – respected him, and, even though she'd never admit it, she liked him, in a way.

In a very weird, rather unusual way, but still.

Maybe that was why she felt so sorry for him and Doctor Watson when John's sister became a suspect in a murder inquiry. And, again, he'd done everything right; the man she had suspected of being a sociopath turned out to be human. She couldn't forget his worried look when he'd walked to the interrogation room with the test result that made sure the sister of his best friend was arrested. She had never really seen him worried before.

She couldn't sleep that night, no matter how hard she tried. Eventually she gave up and was at the Yard about four am. There were no new developments – not that she'd expected any – so she did paperwork until the sun rose, then went for coffee.

Anderson came in just as she was taking her cup out of the machine.

"Sally."

She nodded.

"You look like you haven't sleep for a week".

"Don't you know just how to make a girl feel special" she answered curtly, turning around and starting to walk away.

"Sally, wait! What's got into you lately?"

"I have no idea. Ask your wife for advice, maybe she can tell you."

With that she returned to her desk.

Shortly after seven, just as she was nodding off over more paperwork, came the call that a PC had found the tattoo parlour where the victim had had her tattoo – apparently some shops opened earlier then she'd realized – and that they had a name.

She took it, thanked the PC and started searching for more information about the victim, but not before texting DI Lestrade.

She put the phone down on her desk, looked at it and took it again to send another text.

Anderson came over.

"What are you doing? I just saw you text Lestrade".

"Nice to know you make sure to watch my every move" she grumbled.

Anderson's eyes widened. "You are not texting – him, are you?"

"Who?"

"The psycho, of course. We can handle this. We can absolutely handle this."

"Sherlock will want to know what's going on".

He stared at her like she had lost her mind, and maybe she had. She definitely considered herself rather idiotic for ever having seen something in him.

She sent the text and glared at him. "Now, don't you have something other to do than to stare at me?"

He huffed and stalked off, leaving her happy not to have to be in his presence longer than necessary.

Greg was sitting around Starbucks, having almost finished his coffee, when he got Sally's message. Someone must have gone to work early. Well at least there was some development. He decided that he had given Sherlock and John enough time to make up and walked back to his flat.

He knocked and heard Sherlock's voice. "Come in, Greg, it's all sorted" and he opened the door and smiled.

"Great. I just got a text – "

"From Donovan?" Sherlock asked.

Greg blinked. "Good. Now you will have to tell me how you knew that. I'm not letting you get away with a shake of your head this time".

Sherlock showed him the text he'd received.

Greg shook his head. "So she has a heart after all, or is there something going on I should know?"

"What should be going on?" Sherlock asked baffled and Greg and John grinned at each other.

The they grew serious.

"Alright. Let's go to the Yard" Greg said. "Maybe the identity of the victim can shed some light on what happened".

Sherlock looked at John, whose shoulders tensed for a moment before he nodded. Soon they were in Greg's car.

When they arrived at the Yard, Sally came to greet them.

"Sir, Doctor Watson... Sherlock" she said, almost hesitatingly.

"What did it stand for?" Sherlock asked.

She looked confused. "Sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The "S" in your text obviously, Donovan. Did it stand for "Sally" or "Sergeant"?"

She seemed taken aback. "I – Sally. It stood for "Sally"".

He nodded. "Well, then, Sally, what do you have?"

John had to bite back a laugh when he saw Anderson come up behind Sally and realize what Sherlock had just called her. The doctor shot a look at Greg, who had to bite his lip as well, which didn't help.

Anderson decided to walk away instead of "joining the madness" as he would no doubt have called it, something John was far from sorry for.

Sally cleared her throat. "The victim's name is Mary Nicolls. She was a lawyer – you were right all along, freak – " and here Greg would have said something, or shot her a stern glare, but it was clear that the malice had long gone. She didn't even seem to think about it as an insult anymore, and neither did Sherlock apparently, for that matter "and nobody reported her missing because, according to her parents, when she went clubbing it happened that she wouldn't call for a few days. She was rather fond of... short-term relationships, you could call it."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Short-term?"

"One night, two nights, that sort of thing. And she didn't care whether the person was married or in a relationship."

John was surprised that Sherlock said nothing. Normally a stab at Anderson and Donovan's affair would have followed, and in fact, he had the feeling that Sally paused in purpose just to get it over with. But he said nothing. Apparently he was thankful for the text, and after a moment's silence, Sally resumed, a little bit confused.

"So I think it's safe to say she might have had some enemies..."

"Yes, I think we can safely say that – " Suddenly Sherlock's eyes started to sparkle, and John knew he had had an idea. "Of course! How could I not have noticed! Sentiment must have clouded my thought processes..."

Nobody said anything, not even Sally. She just sighed and shook her head, but didn't look particularly annoyed, John noted.

Sherlock sprinted off, and John would have followed, but Greg put a hand on his shoulders and called, "Sherlock! What? What what what what what?" winking at the doctor when he stared at him.

Sherlock turned around. "I need the evidence we took out of Harry's flat. I'm going to..."

"DI Lestrade's office. I'll bring you the evidence" Sally interrupted and stalked off without anyone holding her back.

Greg chuckled. "I'd say that was an order. Coffee, anyone?"

Sherlock and John followed him into the office. John wanted to ask Sherlock what had occurred to him, but knew his best friend well enough to not even bother. The consulting detective would talk when he was ready.

Sally soon brought the evidence and Sherlock snatched the bags out of her hands and immediately took out the picture of Violet Hunter, Harry's ex-lover. He was waving it excitedly at John and Greg, who didn't know what to make of it; none of them heard sally quietly leaving the office.

"I've been blind!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Only when Sally said that she would have enemies did I realize..."

"Realize what, Sherlock? Calm down" Greg said, waving his hand. John nodded. "Sherlock, are you saying that Harry is..." he looked pained.

"No. I'm saying that Harry is innocent."

"Really?" John asked, hope beginning to show on his face.

"Really. I've been looking at this the other way around... What if Harry wasn't angry with her ex-lover – _what if her ex-lover was angry with her_? She got, after all, cheated on as well – Harry didn't tell her she had a girlfriend."

"Well, yes, but – " Greg tried to say something, but Sherlock interrupted him. "Think, just think! I found the belt – that Harry said went missing some time ago. She could have left it at Violet's and forgotten about it – all Violet had to do was to kill someone with it, and – or maybe she wanted to actually strangle Harry with it. Oh, this is good." His eyes blazed. "She was probably following her, waiting for the right moment – and she had the bottle of nail polish with her because she wanted to mark her in some way, and then she saw the fight with our victim, and she realized there was an even better opportunity... Frame her for murder... And..."

He hit himself on the forehead. "But of course! I didn't find the knife used to stab the victim, because we couldn't have linked it to Harry..."

"So" Greg said, slowly, "We have to find Violet Hunter?"

"Correct, Inspector" Sherlock grinned. John had let himself fall on Greg's chair, looking relieved.

"Good, then, I'll have somebody pick her up". Greg grabbed the receiver of the phone on his desk.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock was pacing up and down the office, occasionally muttering to himself half-sentences. "Maybe she cut herself... be possible to prove... as long as..." John and Greg didn't really listen; John's head was spinning with the thought that his sister might be innocent after all, something he hadn't dared to believe in anymore, to be honest.

Harry was innocent... Could he tell her? Should he tell her? Was it right to get her hopes up? Was it – would it be welcome? Would he be welcome? If the case had taught him something it was this: No matter what, no matter how, he would always choose Sherlock, even over his own flesh and blood. He didn't know how to consider this new-found knowledge. Then, again, nobody cared less about relations than Sherlock did, so maybe John could try to see it from his point of view. There was no reason to be loyal to one another just because one shared a part of one's DNA with another person...

He almost had to laugh when he realized how well he could imagine what Sherlock would say. But still... he had to talk to his sister.

He turned to Greg, who'd stared out of the window, lost in his thoughts#, since he'd made the call to pick up Violet Hunter. "Greg? Can I see Harry?"

Greg shook his head. "Of course, John. But you can't tell her" he took a look at Sherlock, who was still pacing up and down the office "our suspicion yet".

"I understand. But I have to see her."

Greg nodded. "I'll take you to her, then".

"Sherlock?" Normally, John would just have left, knowing that now and then his best friend would tell him something without realizing he wasn't there, but in this case it was important that Sherlock knew what he was doing. He grabbed his arm.

Sherlock stopped pacing and blinked. "Yes?"

"I am going to see Harry".

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be here. I hope these idiots can for once pick up a suspect..."

Greg didn't even bother to say anything, he just led John out of his office and towards the cells.

He was relieved that his favourite crime-solving duo was the best of friends again, although he was worried about the conversation John was sure to have with Harry. Not because he thought the doctor would reveal anything; but because, to him at least, it was obvious whom John would have chosen to believe if Harry had been guilty (or, at least, if they had been forced to prosecute her) and he had been forced to choose. And if it was obvious to him, it was probably just as obvious to the doctor's sister.

He stopped walking when they'd reached the corridor. "The PC will take Harry into the visiting room... I'm afraid he'll have to be there the whole time."

"I understand. What are you going to do?"

Greg cleared his throat and looked at the floor, hoping John wouldn't notice the faint blush on his cheeks. He did, however.

"You aren't... going to St Bart's, by any chance?"

"In fact I am. Why do you ask?"

"No particular reason." The PC approached them, and John winked at him. "Say hi to Molly, please".

Before Greg could answer, John had already started to follow the PC, and he turned around, sending Sherlock a text. _Going to St Bart's. Molly will want to know what's going on. G_

He didn't expect a reply, but barely a minute later he got one. _Yes she does. However I highly doubt whether you only want to visit her because of that reason. Nevertheless, I hope she is well and I will keep you informed. S_

Greg shook his head and decided to walk to Bart's; the air would do him good.

Unbeknownst to them all, Mycroft was standing in front of 221B at about the same time. Mrs. Hudson opened the door almost instantly. She looked at him surprised, but smiled. "Mycroft! I am afraid the boys aren't in at the moment – they had a fight, Sherlock wasn't home at all last night, and John has gone to find him –"

"I know, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock spend the night at Inspector Lestrade's flat, he texted me. Inspector Lestrade later informed me that John – no doubt in his anger at the situation of his sister being a murder suspect – had accidentally broken his violin. I have, however, been informed some time ago that he, Sherlock and DI Lestrade drove to Scotland Yard together."

Mrs. Hudson smiled and ushered him in. "That's wonderful news! So all's sorted, then. That is a relief. You can't imagine how concerned Sherlock was about John – and how sorry John was for breaking his violin."

Mycroft nodded. He could, in fact, imagine all of it very well; once upon a time he had had problems deducing his brother's heart, but after the three years Sherlock spent in hiding, it was rather clear. Sherlock had a good, affectionate heart, other than he, the "Ice Man", and he couldn't have taken John's suffering lightly. And John... he knew the doctor well enough to realize he probably felt bad whenever he had been angry at one of his friends, and this time, he had actually broken something of considerable value...

Mycroft tried not be emotional over it, but knowing that Sherlock had kept his gift all these years, even when he'd been a homeless addict, and that breaking it had made him angry enough to run away from his best friend...

It made him feel... almost happy. Maybe there was some part of Sherlock's mind palace labelled "feelings", and maybe, just maybe, Mycroft had a small corner in that room.

Which reminded him why he was here. He looked at Sherlock's h – landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, I need to go into their flat for a moment..." He could easily have used the key he suspected Mrs. Hudson knew perfectly well he possessed, but that wouldn't have been polite. And he had a soft spot for the old lady, who looked better after Sherlock than (even though it pained him to admit it) Mummy ever had.

Her eyes widened, and a moment later she couldn't conceal her joy. He should have known that she'd instantly realize why he was there, of course.

"You've come about the violin! Will you fix it? Sherlock likes it a lot, you know. He told me once it was the best present anyone had ever given him".

At that, he was so surprised that he didn't say anything for a moment. She smiled and patted his arm. "We were in America, my husband had just been executed and he was high, in case you're wondering why he told me." She beamed. "Now, why don't you go up and take a look, and I'll make us a nice cuppa?"

Mycroft sighed inwardly – Mrs Hudson hardly ever only drank a cuppa without anything to eat while you were drinking, there went his diet – but smiled, because he really couldn't help it. She simply made one feel comfortable, there was no other way to explain it. "That would be nice."

"Good. Now, just go up and use your key" and she went into her kitchen, Mycroft shaking his head. If she'd been younger, she might have made an excellent addition to the Secret Service.

He walked up and opened the door. He immediately spotted the violin on the table in front of the sofa – John must have picked it up from the floor – and saw that DI Lestrade had been quite right when he'd said that Sherlock would never be able to play it again. It hurt him a little, to see Sherlock's beloved instrument like that. He carefully picked up the three pieces and went down.

Mrs. Hudson was already waiting for him with a cup of tea and – naturally – a piece of cake and looked at him expectantly. He shook his head. "I'm afraid it can't be repaired".

Her face fell. "Oh dear". She put the cup and the cake in front of a Mycroft, who'd sat down at the kitchen table, and served herself. "I assume it was rather expensive?"

"Yes it was" Mycroft answered, swallowing the lump in his throat that had suddenly appeared when he'd remembered Sherlock's happy face when he'd received it.

"But can't you find a replacement?"

The cake was excellent, as well as the tea, and Mycroft decided to let his diet be diet for one day. "I think I can, yes."

Mrs. Hudson stood up, strode into her living room and was back again so swiftly that Mycroft hardly had time to wonder what she was doing. She put a hundred pound note in his hands. "I know it's not much, but please, take it. Sherlock needs a new violin".

Mycroft meant to protest, but one look at her determined face told him he'd better not. "Of course he does, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate it."

She beamed again, and Mycroft decided that there were definitely worse things than being put back in your diet to make a nice old lady happy. So he had another piece of cake.

Greg walked along the lab corridor at St Bart's and took a deep breath before opening the door. He knew his crush was hopeless – he was too old for a good-looking intelligent girl like Molly Hooper – but that didn't mean he didn't like to see her. Or that there wasn't a certain unsettled feeling in his stomach when she smiled at him.

"Greg! I was just going to text you... Have there been any developments?"

"Yes. Harry might not be the killer after all."

"That's excellent news!" She grinned, and he decided he couldn't not tell her what had happened.

"And John broke Sherlock's violin last night. He was angry, and it was an accident –"

"But Sherlock loves his violin!" He was reminded that she had had a crush on his consulting detective forever – big enough to lie for three years about him being alive – and felt a pang of totally unwarranted jealousy.

He sighed. "exactly. I spoke to Mycroft. Maybe he can fix it..."

"If not..." She looked for her handbag, found it and took out her purse. She gave him fifty pounds.

"I know that's not enough, but maybe he can buy one string with it..." Greg chuckled. "Thanks, Molly, I'll make sure he – or Mycroft – gets it. That's a good idea; I'll tell Mycroft to take a bit of money out of my account, too – he'll know how much he can take without rendering me unable to pay the rent, I have no doubt."

She giggled, and suddenly, though he didn't know why, he asked, "Molly, would you – would you like to have dinner with me? I mean – we can – " He hadn't asked a woman out for a date in ages, and it was showing.

But she beamed. "Of course! I'd love to".

Greg, who had expected a polite rejection, was surprised, and had to stop his mouth from forming the words "No, I understand..." instead saying "Great. Once Sherlock has solved this case, I'll call you."

She grinned and there was the feeling in his stomach again. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it wasn't a crush anymore –

He stopped the train of thought and smiled back.

"I'll – leave you to it, then."

"Say hi to Sherlock and John, will you? I'm going to text Mike – he'll want to know what's going on".

"Of course he will" Greg answered. Mike Stamford was always concerned about his friends, and Greg couldn't be more thankful for him having introduced them.

He gave Molly another smile and left the lab, feeling even happier than before.

He got a text and pulled out his phone.

It was from Sherlock.

_Violet Hunter found at her office. She'll be at the Yard soon._

If it was possible, his day might get even better.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock continued pacing up and down Greg's office after the DI and his blogger had left. All the elevation, the wonderful feeling of being on the brink of solving a case that he'd missed so much, was back, and there was something else, too: Relief. Overwhelming, wonderful relief that Harry hadn't – though, of course, he still had to prove her ex-lover guilty, but he was sure Violet Hunter was the killer. Harry – while an alcoholic – wasn't stupid, and, if he was being honest with himself, her leaving so obvious clues behind had always felt a little... off. But there had been evidence, so convincing evidence... maybe he would have seen through it all sooner if it hadn't been for his connection with John.

But, he reflected, as he thought about Moriarty and what he'd gone through to dismantle his web, that just might be an acceptable price for being human.

They had to find Violet Hunter first. Of course Greg was right to rather have her brought in than let Sherlock and John go looking for her; they were too close to the suspect they were trying to exonerate. But still – Sherlock wanted to do something, anything really.

He rather missed his violin, and when he remembered how it had broken to pieces in front of his eyes, he winced, stopped pacing and sat down on Greg's chair. He knew it wasn't John's fault; he knew it had been an accident; and still... He needed another instrument, though he doubted it could... mean as much to him as his old violin had. Mycroft, the brother he, despite everything, cared for, had given it to him, and he'd never parted with it. Until now.

Although it would probably be fun to annoy Mycroft into buying him a new one.

He had come so far in his thoughts when Sally stepped into the office. "Where are DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson?"

"Greg is at Bart's, John with Harry" Sherlock replied, reflecting that a week ago he'd never have imagined that he could have something like a polite conversation with Sally Donavan of all people.

She nodded. "We found Violet Hunter."

"Good, I'll send him a text" Sherlock answered, already thinking about how best to –

Sally cleared her throat.

"So – everything's fine, then."

"Yes, it is" Sherlock answered, surprised, before he realized what she meant and remembered a conversation with Molly years ago. "Am I supposed to say "Thank you"?"

"Yes, you are, freak, but I'm not holding my breath, so – "

"Thank you". Sally raised an eyebrow, and for the first time, he gave her a real smile. "Good, then". She cleared her throat again. "I'll let you text DI Lestrade in peace, then, and take Violet Hunter to the interrogation room as soon as she's brought in". Of course he had sent countless texts before her in the past, but she had no idea what to do in a situation like this, simply because she'd never really talked to Sherlock Holmes before – without one of them insulting the other, at least. But she couldn't deny that it was – nice, in a way. Weird, certainly, but nice. Maybe they could work on something like a good working relationship.

"Do that" he replied, then, before adding, when she'd all but left the office, "Congratulations are in order, I gather. You finally had the sense to end things with Anderson."

Normally, she would have stormed off. A week ago, she would have stormed off. Now she turned around and actually smiled before closing the door behind her. If all of this hadn't happened at the cost of John's emotional well-being, it might have been fascinating. Then he started planning how to make Violet Hunter reveal the truth.

Greg hadn't come far – in fact, he had only just left St Bart's – when he heard a vaguely familiar voice call his name. He turned around and saw a rather stout little man walk quickly towards him.

Mike Stamford. Of course.

"Molly texted me. Do you mind if I join you? I don't have any lessons today, and I could keep John company."

"Good idea, Mr. Stamford" Greg answered and they walked towards Scotland Yard together. Mike waved a hand in the air. "Call me Mike. We're all Sherlock's friends, after all, and he has a way of bringing people together."

"Greg. And, from what I gather, so have you". Mike smiled. "It was chance more than anything, really. If I hadn't met John in the park when I did..."

Greg nodded. That was true. And he didn't really care for a world where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson never met.

They walked in silence for a few moments, before Mike asked, "Molly's text said you are collecting for a new violin for Sherlock?"

"Yes I am. His old one got..." Greg hesitated, unsure whether John would like him to reveal it, then realizing he'd already told Mycroft and Molly and that Mike was one of John's oldest friends. "John broke it accidentally".

He nodded. "Molly hinted something like that... Well, John has always had a bit of a temper." He took out his purse and pressed fifty pounds into Greg's hand. "Here".

This time, the DI started to protest. "Mike, you have a family – "

"And the only thing my wife will say will be along the lines of "And how much did you give him?" Trust me, I know Sue. And Davey adores Sherlock and John".

Greg put the fifty pounds away and thanked fate that it had decided to introduce Sherlock and John, and that Mike Stamford had been its chosen helper.

When they arrived at the Yard, Greg had Mike escorted to the visiting room – he could wait for John in the corridor – and took out his phone. Mycroft was most likely already looking for a replacement, even though he probably wouldn't admit it, so he'd better tell him to take the money as soon as possible.

The British Government picked up immediately – still worried about his brother and his best friend, then – and asked, "Has Violet Hunter confessed?"

"She is just being brought in" Greg answered, knowing perfectly well that it would be pointless to ask how Mycroft knew that they had a new suspect.

"Good. Why are you calling, Inspector?"

"Because I am rather sure you are going to buy a new violin, and I want you to take two hundred pounds from my account." He'd decided that it would be easier this way than to give the money to Mycroft – the man certainly had access to any account in the UK, so why not use it. "Don't worry, Molly and Mike gave me fifty pounds each. I know it's not much, but maybe you can find a second-hand bow or something."

He could have sworn he heard Mycroft Holmes chuckle, but only for a second. "I take it any attempt at resistance would be futile... Mrs. Hudson already gave me a hundred pounds as well."

"You would be right. And I am not surprised." Of course Mrs. Hudson would want to help with buying the new violin too. She was their loyal h– landlady after all.

"Then I will. Goodbye, Inspector." Mycroft hung up, and Greg was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He turned around.

Sally looked at him. "She'll be here in ten minutes, sir. Sherlock's in your office, and John is talking to his sister."

Greg nodded. "Thank you." He would have gone to speak to Sherlock then, but Sally lingered and looked at the floor, and he had the suspicion that she wanted to say something, but didn't know how to begin.

"Is there something else?" he prompted.

She looked everywhere but at him. "I couldn't help but hear – you're buying the fr – Sherlock a new violin?"

"Yes. His old one got broken in an accident."

She nodded. "Good, then. He'll need something to torture anyone in earshot with".

It was said without malice, and Greg thought that maybe, just maybe, she was fond of Sherlock in her own way, so he said nothing. He simply made a movement somewhere between a nod and a shrug, smiled and walked towards his office.

He found Sherlock at his desk, hands in his usual thinking position.

"Violet Hunter is going to be here in a few minutes."

Sherlock jumped up, his eyes ablaze. "Excellent. Let's go to the interview room."

Greg knew better than to tell Sherlock that they could wait here, too – his consulting detective needed to do something, and if something entailed striding dramatically towards the interview room, so be it.

Sherlock strode out and passed Sally, who'd just raised her hand to knock at his door, apparently.

"Excuse me, sir? Here's the file you wanted."

Before he could tell her that he hadn't asked for a file, she'd put in on his desk and left. He opened it to find it was a file on a case that they had closed two weeks ago, and that two twenty pounds notes was stuck to the first page with a paperclip. He smiled and texted Mycroft.

_Take another forty pounds from my account. A colleague just gave me some money.  
GL_

Mycroft didn't answer, but Greg, as he walked towards the interrogation room and put the file minus the money on Sally's desk – of course the Sergeant was nowhere to be seen – was sure that the older Holmes would do it. This was about Sherlock's violin, after all.

John was as nervous as he was relieved when he waited for Harry to be brought into the visiting room. He could tell his sister that she was no longer considered a prime suspect – at least by Sherlock – but he couldn't tell her who was, and she would most likely later resent him for it. Sherlock had said that harry must have had real feelings for Violet Hunter, and John knew from experiments that his sister let everything out – most of the time through drinking – while he was the one trying to appear fine. Harry wouldn't even try to control the hurt and betrayal she was sure to feel, and he would be the one to look after her. He sighed. On top of his annoyance, he felt guilty – because he only felt annoyed. He didn't feel particularly sorry for Harry, or even bad, not anymore. And even the guilt he now felt was no comparison to what he'd gone through after he'd broken Sherlock's violin.

The door opened and Harry was led in. She looked awful; it was clear she hadn't slept, but a sight that normally, when Sherlock was the one not sleeping, sent all alarm bells ringing and made John worry – now, it left him feeling strangely empty and cold. Of course, he felt guilty because of it. Again. But only that.

"It was time you showed up again" she said, polite as always.

"Harry..." ha started to answer, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Let's not do this right now. I only cam to tell you that Sherlock found another lead, and – "

"That I'm innocent? Thank you so much, I'd never have guessed".

He shook his head, and Harry scowled. Her brother should certainly be a bit more apologetic. A part of her – but a part she didn't particularly care to listen to – understood him. But she had wanted him to believe her, not his best friend.

John cleared his throat. "Harry – that wasn't what I meant to say. I meant that Sherlock is going to prove it, and then you can – "

"What's the new lead?" she interrupted him.

John shook his head. "I can't say. You're still under arrest."

"So what? You would tell me if I were Sherlock – "

And, just like that, John couldn't, he wouldn't listen to Harry's selfish thoughts any longer. He'd done that for most of his life.

"But you aren't Sherlock." He said it matter-of-factly. It was clear what he meant. The unspoken "I don't trust you" was hanging in the air between them.

When she turned around without another word and banged on the door, he felt bad for it. Naturally. He shouldn't have –

"Harry..."

"No, no, I understand. Go. Solve the case. Just remember to come and get me when you catch the real murderer" she spat, letting herself be led back to her cell.

John left the room to find Mike in the corridor, looking at him worriedly. "I take it that didn't go to well?" he asked, softly.

John shook his head. "Not exactly."

"At least they have a new suspect – Molly told me". Then he added, "And Greg asked her out".

So Mike was friends with Greg now, too. Nothing like having John's sister in custody for bonding to ensue, apparently. Nonetheless, John smiled, happy for his friends. "About time".

"You can say that – she's been gushing about him for ages." Mike looked him up and down. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please" John answered, and as they made their way to the coffee machine, he hoped that all of this would soon be over and done with.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock continued pacing in the interview room, and Greg was once more reminded of a caged tiger ready to pounce on anyone who might happen to walk into his lair. He tried to calm him down somewhat.

"Sherlock" he said. His consulting detective apparently didn't hear him, so he tried again. "Sherlock!"

At least he stopped pacing and looked at him. "Yes? What is it?" He sounded nervous, and Greg couldn't blame him.

"Relax. Yes, we still have to prove she did it, but at least we have another suspect. And we both know you are going to solve this case."

He had hoped for a smile, but Sherlock shook his head. "The problem is... Greg, we both know what would happen if this case went to court now. Harry would be convicted."

"At least she'd have to get sober for real then..." Greg answered. "But you're right, I don't think that would be an acceptable outcome".

Sherlock shot him an amused look. The DI raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

""An acceptable outcome" – and you're telling me John's starting to talk like me?"

"At least we're not alone" Greg replied, shrugging his shoulders, and, this time, he was rewarded with a smile.

There was a knock on the door and Sally came in. She managed not to look Greg in the eyes without appearing disrespectful – she apparently didn't know what to think about herself giving money for Sherlock's violin – and said, "She's here. I'll have her brought in."

Greg opened his mouth, but Sherlock was quicker. "Thank you, Sally".

She left the room without looking at either of them, and Greg suppressed a smirk.

"You might want to send her to a doctor – first she breaks things off with Anderson, then she is polite to me, then she gets embarrassed" Sherlock mumbled, distractedly.

He didn't answer, because a PC brought Violet Hunter in at this moment.

Even Greg, who was lucky enough to very soon have a date with a rather pretty pathologist, couldn't deny she was attractive. She was bleached blonde, just like the victim had been, she was slim, and she was rather tall for a woman – almost as tall as him.

She also looked far from happy.

"Miss Hunter? I am DI Lestrade, this is Sherlock Holmes. Please sit down. We have to ask you a few questions."

She sat down, glaring at them both and Greg mused that she and Harry must have been a good match.

"Why am I here, Inspector?"

Greg laid a picture of Mary – when she'd been alive – on the table.

"This young woman was found murdered – "

"I don't know anything about that."

"Where were you Saturday evening?"

"At work. I work for the Ministry of Defence, we often have to work on weekends."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"I was alone in the office". She shrugged. She seemed very unconcerned for someone who had just been told, more or less, that they were a person of interest in a murder investigation. Even if he hadn't heard Sherlock explain everything, Greg would have been suspicious. People tended to be nervous when they were picked up by the police.

He saw Sherlock look at him from the corner of his eye, asking for permission. He nodded slightly.

"Do you know someone called Harriet Watson?"

Violet's eyes lit up with recognition – though she seemed less concerned about her ex-lover; she was staring at Sherlock.

"Oh, of course. I knew I had heard your name before – you're this amateur detective Harry's brother is always hanging out with."

Greg managed not to wince, but just barely. This was not good. Sherlock hated being called an "amateur" – quite simply because he wasn't one.

To his credit, his friend didn't seem to have heard the word at all. He just looked at her, deducing what he could, and asked, simply, "Did you care about Harry Watson?"

She tried to shrug her shoulders in an off-hand manner, but her eyes flashed dangerously for a moment, and Greg knew she knew he'd seen it.

"We had something. For a few months. Then I found out she had had a girlfriend the whole time. I ended it. I'll admit it took me embarrassingly long to realize – but it has happened to others before me. No big deal."

"She has your picture next to her bed" Greg decided to interrupt.

"Has she? Maybe she should have thought about what she was doing, then."

"Had she started drinking again before you were involved?"

"She's drinking again? Didn't know that. No, I don't think so. I never saw her drunk."

Greg nodded, looking at Sherlock. The consulting detective resumed the interview and showed her the belt.

"Have you ever seen this belt before?"

She shrugged. "Could be – it's just a belt".

"It belongs to Harry Watson".

"If you say so".

"You used it to strangle Mary".

He had hoped that she would start, be shocked, surprised, anything really. But she just smiled.

"Prove it, then".

She knew they couldn't; she knew everything pointed towards Harry; she knew they –

But she didn't know him. She didn't know what Sherlock Holmes was capable off. As he looked into her icy blue eyes, he swore to himself that he'd solve this case. For John.

Greg sighed. They'd have to let her go. They didn't even have enough for a search warrant of her house. Then he had an idea. Maybe their case wasn't as hopeless as he thought.

"We will. Miss Hunter, you can go".

She strode out with a last contemptuous glance, and Sherlock looked at Greg. "Why..."

"Think, Sherlock. We need more data, as you'd undeniably put it. And who can get us more data when our suspect works at the MOD?"

Realization flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "I'm going to call Mycroft".

John and Mike got coffee – or something resembling coffee – from the machine.

"You'll see, John, Sherlock will clear it all up in no time".

"That may be, but he still needs evidence."

"You know he never gives up".

"That's true". John smiled. Then he grimaced. "Mike, I – "

"Broke his violin. Molly told me." Mike shook his head. "I'm sure he understands you're under a lot of pressure right now".

"But still..." John had a thought. "I have to call someone".

"Sure. I'll just sit down on the bench in the corridor that leads to the interview rooms" Mike answered, already turning around, musing that once upon a time, he'd never have thought that he'd be as familiar with the interior of Scotland Yard as he was with that of St Bart's.

John went into Greg's office to make the call without being overheard.

Mycroft picked up immediately.

"John".

"Mycroft. I'm rather sure you know that – "

"Yes, I am aware of your fight. And I went to pick up the violin. I'm afraid it cannot be repaired."

John winced, though he'd expected it.

"Are you... going to get him a new one? If so, please take money from my account..."

"I'm afraid it costs more than what you can offer, but, seeing as Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, Molly Hopper, Mike Stamford, and, I believe, Sergeant Donavan already gave money, I am not going to reject it. But I won't take all."

John took a deep breath. "Good. That's good, then – wait a moment, Donavan?"

"DI Lestrade informed that a "colleague" had given him money, and I think she is the most likely..."

"Yes, yes, I think you're right" John said, before remembering that Mycroft hated to be interrupted. There was silence at the other end. "Sorry".

"No need to apologize, John. This haven't been easy days for you." Another pause. "But, if you should continue to upset Sherlock, you might be even more sorry than before. Goodbye."

He hung up and John swore to himself that he'd never go near Sherlock's violin when he was angry again. Then he slowly made his way towards the corridor where Mike sat on the bench.

His old friend smiled at him, but stood up. "John, Sue just called. Apparently Davey hasn't stopped crying for two hours, and she wants to take him to the doctor – "

"Of course, Mike, go. Your family should be more important right now..."

"You're part of it too, John. I'll tell Davey that Uncle John and Uncle Sherlock wish him all the best". Then, with another smile, he was gone, and John sat down on the bench again.

Before long, he saw a blonde woman apparently being escorted out of the building, Sherlock and Greg walking behind her, and John only had to look at their face to know that they hadn't got anywhere.

"It's not over, John" Greg said, stopping beside the doctor and watching Violet Hunter leave the Yard.

"We have a plan. She's working for the MOD – Sherlock's going to call Mycroft for information."

Sherlock was already making the call, and said as a way of greeting, "Brother dear, I need your help."

"I assume it has to do with Violet Hunter?"

"Yes."

"I'll mail you her file".

"Thanks".

"Oh, and greetings to John and DI Lestrade."

Sherlock hung up and looked at his phone with raised eyebrows.

"Mycroft is going to send me her file – and he says hi" he said, sounding confused.

John and Greg smiled at each other. It seemed like Mycroft had done what they had asked him to do.


	22. Chapter 22

They didn't have to wait for long; within two minutes, Sherlock got the mail on his phone, and read it aloud.

"Violet Hunter... seems to be an over-achiever. Mycroft hasn't had much to do with her – apparently he didn't like something about her, though he can't put his finger on it – but she's dedicated, passionate and never lets go once she is on the job. She frequently works all night long. She's a workaholic, even by MOD standards, which is saying something." He started mumbling to himself. Greg mouthed to John "That's in her file?" and John simply mouthed back Mycroft's name. Methodical..." He paused, and John could see he had just had an idea.

"What is it?"

"She would have planted the knife next to the belt – or near Harry's flat, hidden of course, so no one would suspect foul play, but still somewhere the police would find it – she methodical, and unscrupulous, judging from the interrogation, and it would only have made Harry's case more hopeless. So why didn't she? _Because she cut herself_. I've been slow – she kept her right hand firmly on the table, palm downward, during the interview, because she didn't want us to see the cut. It's the only explanation – the knife could be linked to her, and she couldn't risk to plant it anywhere. She had to get rid of it. The question is where and how... a knife isn't easy to break, especially a sharp, strong one, so she would have to..."

"But how do you know she cut herself? Couldn't she have hidden it for another reason? Maybe it was a family heirloom, or something like that?" Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. When dealing with someone like Violet Hunter... I think it's more likely that she actually wanted to put the knife somewhere we'd find it, probably near the belt. But she didn't. Why? Because after the crime, the knife could be linked to her. So the only explanation is that she cut herself and left blood on the knife. She'd most likely want to get rid of it immediately..." He all but jumped, suddenly, and John was reminded of their first case together, A Study In Pink. How Sherlock had run out of the restaurant.

"She had to return to the MOD, to make her alibi believable... Let's see, if she went from the crime scene straight to the MOD, she would go – " His eyes sparkled. "I know exactly where to look. I'll be back in two hours, at the most".

And he wanted to dash off, as usual, but John was right behind him, this time.

He asked, "Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock looked at him and frowned. "You are not coming."

But John held firm. "Then you are not going". Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John added, "She knows we're on to her. She knows she should get rid of the knife, which she will most likely try to do immediately. And she, judging by her crime – she killed a woman just to get back at her ex-lover – has absolutely no conscience. She wouldn't think twice about getting rid of you, too. I'm not going to let you run into possibly dangerous situations on your own any longer, and you know that." Sherlock wanted to protest – there were several reasons John shouldn't accompany him, not the least being that he was still upset that his sister had been arrested, and therefore might do something he would later regret. But he knew, of course he knew, why his blogger didn't want to leave him alone for too long, and John shot him a look that told him that any resistance would be futile. The consulting detective closed his mouth and nodded. "Fine. But you will stay in the background – I don't want anyone to claim that we went against regulations".

"You mean" Greg, who'd slowly walked up to where they were standing, decided to interrupt, "more against regulations than letting someone who isn't a policeman or a forensic tech find and secure the evidence?"

"Exactly". Sherlock's voice was serious – but then, it almost always was – but there was a certain mischievous look in his eyes that told Greg that he'd understood what the DI meant and would be as careful as he was capable of being. Which wasn't much, but as long as John was at his side...

So their DI just sighed and shrugged. "Good. But you text me every hour. And as soon as you find something, you return to the Yard. Understood?"

"Yes, sir" John replied, half-mockingly, already following Sherlock out the door. But the doctor would at least keep in touch, Greg was sure of it.

Sherlock and John returned to the crime scene, Sherlock rattling off the ways she could have returned to the MOD – "Obviously she walked, she wouldn't have risked being seen in a cab or a bus" – and John first sitting, then walking beside him, after a while starting to smile to himself.

Sherlock noticed from the corner of his eye and shot him a look. "I distinctly remember you telling me that smiling while investigating a capital crime like murder or kidnapping isn't deemed socially acceptable".

"It isn't."

"So why are you doing it?"

"Because, amongst our things, I've found that "being socially acceptable" is the least of one's concerns when one's friends with the World's only consulting detective."

Sherlock hummed and would have continued with his deductions, had John not suddenly put a hand on his forearm and stopped him. He turned towards his blogger.

"Sherlock..." John looked at the pavement, then at him and smiled. "This is... it's good. To be back. Like this. With you." He squeezed his forearm, the let it go. He took a deep breath.

Sherlock didn't know what to say, so he nodded.

John continued. "I'm sorry for..."

"I know, John. We already talked about this..."

But his doctor interrupted him. "I'm not talking about the violin, Sherlock – though, for the record, I am still sorry for that as well – but I shouldn't have shut you out. I should have trusted you, like my instincts told me too."

Sherlock tried not to look touched, but John most likely saw it anyway.

"She is your sister. You were supposed to trust and believe her in a situation like this."

"But I didn't. I wouldn't. Good God, Sherlock, if it had been you – we both know you can be arrested without me doubting you for one second – but Harry... I was angry with you, with myself, because I felt guilty – I still do, a little bit – because I didn't immediately think "She can't have done it". I doubted her because our relationship isn't what it should be."

Sherlock laughed. "John, you know my brother, and you think that you have to explain to me – "

"Your relationship with Mycroft may be complicated..."

"Your ability to state the obvious astounds me every time".

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious here. Please. I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to give me an honest answer. In fact, I want you to say the first thing that pops into your head. Please?"

Sherlock, for once, had no idea where this was leading, but he trusted John. He'd always trusted his blogger, so he nodded.

John took a deep breath. "Let's say... You get a call. Mycroft has been found next to a body, bloody knife still in his hand, every single piece of evidence points towards him. What do you think?"

He didn't have to think about it. Like John had wanted, he said the first thing that came to his mind – in this case, just one word.

"Impossible".

John chuckled, and Sherlock realized what he'd meant. He and Mycroft didn't have the best of sibling relationships, but even if something happened in the way John had just described, and even if logic told him that Mycroft was guilty, he would never accept it. He wouldn't accept it. John had expected this reaction from himself, and when it hadn't come, he'd been angry and lashed out.

"I see your point".

"Good, then". John grinned. "Then let's go and catch Miss Hunter".

Sherlock grinned back and they were on their way.

"She would have kept away from busy streets – that can't have been easy, especially on a Saturday night – and she wouldn't have thrown the knife into a bin, the risk of it being found would be too great" he explained, slowing his pace a little so John could keep up with him.

"So she would have hidden it somewhere it was unlikely to be found – " John mused, expecting a sarcastic remark from Sherlock (like "This is normal when you hide something"), but his friend was lost in his thoughts. "Wouldn't she also put it somewhere there was a chance the evidence would be – I don't know – washed away?"

Sherlock turned to him so quickly that John almost jumped.

"Of course! A gutter! John, I stand by my words. You are a conductor of light".

Sherlock quickly deduced where she was most likely to have hidden the knife, an alley that wasn't much frequented, even at this time of the day, so it would most likely be empty, and they arrived at the right place to see Violet Hunter trying to get the murder weapon out of its hiding place.

"Hello again, Miss Hunter" Sherlock drawled.

She stood up, her eyes flashing. "I would ask how you found me, but of course it seems stupid not to have expected you to stalk me..."

"I'm afraid I didn't, Miss Hunter. You aren't that hard to figure out".

"And yet you almost had to put dear Harry in jail for a crime she didn't commit. Not that she didn't deserve it – she was the one who cheated on me, after all."

"I think it's safe to say" Sherlock answered, looking bored, "that, considering the situation, Harry's girlfriend was the one cheated on."

John sighed inwardly. Trust Sherlock to make a situation worse.

"I didn't know she had a girlfriend. And I am not one to just accept being treated like a slut."

"So you followed her? I assume you originally wanted to kill her, but when you witnessed the argument between her and the victim and saw her being assaulted, you realized that you could sent her to jail instead?"

Violet nodded and smiled a smile that made John's blood run cold. Harry had never had luck with the choice of her partners; Clara had been the only one John had liked, the only one who was good for her, so really, Harry leaving her was just logical, when you came to think of it. But Violet Hunter certainly deserved a place on top of the list of dangerous ex-lovers.

"Yes; it was a stroke of luck, really."

"Except the knife".

"Yes, except that. I should have taken better care while stabbing her. I wanted to leave the knife somewhere between the street and Harry's flat, but of course I couldn't do that after I'd cut myself."

"So you hid it here..."

"And when you decided to interfere, because your little doctor was sad, I knew I had to get it out, if possible destroyed. I must admit I underestimated you..."

She smiled her cold smile again and took a gun out of her handbag, and John cursed. Of course she was armed. But at least he was at Sherlock's side. And he always had his gun with him, nowadays, in fact since Sherlock returned. He was fairly certain Greg knew about it.

"But if I shoot you two right now, I can get away with it."

She was pointing the gun at Sherlock, and John very slowly moved his hand towards the pocket where he kept his.

Then he realized she was going to shoot, even as Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her that couldn't possibly work –

He jumped in front of his best friend.

There were two shots.


	23. Chapter 23

At first, John didn't know what happened. All he knew was that, all of a sudden, the world turned black for a moment, and he heard Sherlock shout "John? John!"

Someone – undoubtedly his best friend – grasped his shoulder, and shook him. He opened his eyes to look right into Sherlock's.

"John? John? You're bleeding – but it appears to be only a grazing shot... on your left upper arm... However, you hit your head when you fell down because of it... John? Talk to me!"

He smiled, or tried to. He could feel the pain where the bullet had grazed his arm, but Sherlock was right; it couldn't be more than a graze. Everything else was just a side effect of his head hitting the pavement – even though Sherlock, judging by the way he cradled John in his arms, had prevented him from hitting the ground too hard.

He managed an actual smile. "I'm fine – or will be, as soon as you give me a band-aid. Where's Hunter?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "Moaning and holding her arm..."

John jumped up immediately, ignoring Sherlock's protests, and went to their suspect. He had shot her in the shoulder, thankfully, it seemed to be a through-and-through. He put pressure on the wound – maybe caring a little less about her moans than he would have done if she hadn't been the one to put his sister in a cell – and said, slowly, "You were lucky."

"That's what you call it?" she pressed out. "If I had hit you in the chest, you wouldn't say that..."

"If you'd hit John in the chest" Sherlock decided to interrupt, "You wouldn't be able to talk right now. In fact, I'm rather sure you'd never talk again."

John would have said something, if there hadn't been a lump in his throat, all of a sudden. He swallowed it down and continued to put pressure on Violet Hunter's wound.

"Sherlock, call an ambulance, please".

"I am rather sure the police will call one – there's no way these shots weren't noticed – but still, I'll do as you wish" came the answer, and John smiled despite everything. Hunter's wound wasn't fatal. He could relax. Though he'd really appreciate a band-aid for the wound on his left arm.

Greg was waiting for a call in his office. He tried to concentrate on his paper work, but his thoughts would always wander back to Sherlock and John and Violet Hunter – true, he would be informed if something happened, but still... He'd prefer it if his tow musketeers simply arrested her, or better yet, found the knife and let Greg arrest her.

Maybe he had, on some subconscious level, known that something would go wrong; but he was all but surprised when Sergeant Donavan cam in without knocking. "Sir, there have been shots" and she named the address.

"That's between the crime scene and the MOD" he said, slowly. She nodded; she knew as well as he what that meant.

"Send an ambulance" he ordered, already jumping up. "I already did, Sir" she answered, following him as he all but ran out of the building, ignoring Anderson, who'd seen her take the call and go into DI Lestrade's office, and demanded to know what was going on.

Greg was berating himself the whole way to the scene of the shots; Sally knew him well enough to keep silent. He should never have let Sherlock and John go alone; after all, Violet Hunter was capable of killing a woman and mutilating her after death, just so her ex-lover would go to jail. If something happened to one of them...

He was more than relieved to find John sitting at the back of an ambulance, his left arm bandaged, but apparently not wounded badly, Sherlock at his side.

"Violet Hunter is in the other car – John shot her, it was a through-and-through" he announced, his voice even, although Greg could hear how relieved he truly was.

"Through-and-through" he repeated. It was good news; he was sure John had shot the cabbie all those years ago, and though he probably wouldn't serve time for it, which was most likely the reason their doctor hadn't got rid of his faithful revolver, he didn't want any evidence linking him to it. He only hoped Sherlock would understand his meaning as he said, "Sherlock, could you look for the bullet? You must know where it's likely to have flown".

His consulting detective shot him a look and nodded, and Greg knew he understood. He squeezed John's shoulder, left the ambulance and started walking towards the alley.

He turned to John. "What happened?"

"Violet Hunter drew a weapon. Luckily, I had m – a gun with me I'd found at 221B..." they grinned at each other, which the really shouldn't have, considering they were talking about an illegal weapon, but since they dealt with Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis, it seemed rather trivial.

"At least you didn't kill her" Greg answered.

John shrugged. "Because I had to jump in front of Sherlock to protect him – therefore, my aim wasn't that good..."

"You might not want to say this when you're making your official statement" Greg said, understanding what John meant. Hunter had threatened Sherlock; if he had been in the same position, he wouldn't have hesitated either.

John smirked. "You might be right about that". They were silent for a moment and looked in the direction Sherlock had disappeared.

Then Greg sighed. "Being friends with Sherlock Holmes certainly has its price, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it has" John agreed, then he looked at Greg, who realized that Sherlock's blogger's eyes suddenly had a sparkle in them that looked all too familiar – he'd often seen it, in Sherlock's eyes at crime scenes. "But it's worth a wound" he added, "It's worth many wounds".

Greg nodded, because there was nothing else he could do. He was of the same opinion. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was dangerous and would maybe one day prove to be lethal. But they both wouldn't have it any other way.

Sherlock was looking for the bullet, though not because he wanted to give it to the forensic techs, especially Anderson, who, he was sure of it, would arrive soon enough; he wasn't particularly keen on having John prosecuted because he shot Jeff Hope, even though that - just like today – had just been to save Sherlock's life.

It was just as he was calculating where the bullet could have dropped that he heard someone call "Hey, freak" from farther up the alleyway and his heart sank. True, Sally Donavan hadn't seemed as unpleasant as usual during this case, but still – and even if she had broken up with Anderson (for the time being) – she would probably get the idea (he hated to admit it, but she wasn't as stupid as her connection with Anderson made her appear to be) to compare the bullet with other cases, and then...

She said "I found the bullet" and looked at him. "Why do I get the feeling that this isn't good?"

"It's good, it's perfectly good, I was looking for it myself, really – " Sally could see that Sherlock was nervous, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. She bit her lip.

"So... Doctor Watson shot Violet Hunter, right?"

"Yes" Sherlock answered, wondering what she was trying to say.

"And... it was a through-and-through. So there was even a possibility that we'd never find the bullet at all..."

"Correct, but since..."

"Am I right that Doctor Watson doesn't have a permit for this weapon?" she asked, even though she had a suspicion that this was the last reason Sherlock didn't want the bullet found. There must be something else. Maybe they could link it to another shooting... But if the bullet wasn't found... With D Lestrade's help, they wouldn't even have to check out the weapon. Sherlock's and John's testimony would be enough. But if they found the bullet, and it turned out it had already been used... She could see why the freak was nervous. And, more than that, she suddenly realised she was nervous too. Anderson would have a field day, and not too long ago, she'd have one, too. She'd have thought that Sherlock was just getting what had been coming to him, and Doctor Watson... well, it would just have been his own fault, for getting involved into the destructing force that was Sherlock Holmes.

Now... Now her decision was surprisingly easy. He didn't even have to answer the question.

She walked up to him and dropped the bullet into the hand he'd held up when hers had been hovering somewhere near his elbows. "I guess it's no great loss we didn't find the bullet. Case closed."

He had been surprised at her attitude this whole case, she knew, but she'd never seen him speechless. Until now. He swallowed, then he nodded. "No, no it isn't".

"Good God, did we just agree on something?" she asked, earning herself a half-smile from him. Then he nodded again, and turned around to stride back to Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade, just as Anderson arrived and walked straight up to her.

"Any chance he hasn't contaminated the evidence this time?" he asked with a sneer.

She shrugged her shoulders. "You'll have to find out yourself." With that she walked off, smiling as she heard him curse behind her.

Sherlock walked back to the ambulance and nodded at Greg and John, who both breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good, then" Greg said, "The paramedics have just informed us that John's free to go. We'll pull you in tomorrow... Right now, I'll send you back to the Yard so you can set Harry free".

John, who had all but forgotten about his sister – he felt guilty, but only for a moment – until then, nodded. "Thank you." When Greg left them to coordinate the soon to be proven fruitless search for the bullet, he turned to Sherlock. "And thank you."

"I was just going to say the same". Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Why are you thanking me? You are the one who was grazed by a bullet, you shouldn't –"

"Sherlock, thank you, for everything. Just accept it."

Sherlock was about to protest, he could tell, but then his best friend just nodded. John smiled. "I suppose you found the bullet?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sergeant Donavan did, but she gave it to me, so I guess it doesn't matter. I'll get rid of it later."

John raised an eyebrow – another gesture he'd unconsciously picked up from Sherlock. "Donavan?"

"Yes – I think she might turn out to be more intelligent than we thought after all."

"Wonders will never cease".

Sherlock flashed him a smile. "Exactly".

John grew serious. "I suppose" he said, sighing, "It's time to tell Harry – and to get her freed."

"Yes, it is" Sherlock answered.

"Let's go, then" They made their way to a police car with a young PC behind the wheel, already waiting for them – Greg had once again proved himself a good friend. As they drove back to Scotland Yard, John thought again about what he had told their DI.

 _It's worth a wound, it's worth many wounds_.

It was. Even if he'd spent three years mourning and visiting an empty grave, even if his sister didn't want to see him anymore, even if he had realized that he'd somewhere along the way stopped trusting her – it was worth it.


	24. Chapter 24

They were quiet during the ride, but it wasn't the tense silence it had been in the past days. They were relieved, they were happy, and the usual post-case euphoria had set in, even though it was still a little tampered by the fact that they didn't know how Harry would react to the news – she might be freed, but her ex-lover was the killer, and she'd only done it to get back at her.

Sherlock could imagine, even from his limited personal experience – and he had no desire to see John's sister more often – that she'd not be happy. And maybe accuse them of having worked sloppy or not fast enough. Which, in turn, would make John angry. He bit his lip and glanced at John, who was looking out the window, out of the corner of his eye. His blogger, despite feeling immensely relieved, was obviously nervous. He kept drumming the fingers of his right hand on his thigh, and his posture was stiff.

"John?"

The doctor turned his head to look at him.

"I could explain it to Harry, if you want..."

He stopped talking because John started laughing.

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, but Harry is angry at herself and the world... And, I don't know if you've noticed, she doesn't like you."

Sherlock snorted. "The thought may have crossed my mind".

His blogger grew serious, though he seemed less tense than before. "Thank you, Sherlock, but I will do it. I have to do it. And it would probably be better if I did it alone."

Sherlock nodded, then looked out the window while saying, "You don't have to keep thanking me".

"Then stop being so considerate. I might get used to it".

Sherlock looked at him again, and John winced as he saw the hurt the consulting detective was trying to hide in those eyes. He shouldn't have said that; he was aware that his best friend was trying to act more human, to show more emotions, even though it was difficult for him after having hidden them for so long and three lonely years spent without one real conversation with another person.

He shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that. I know you are considerate, in your own way". Sherlock smiled, and John smiled back, relieved. "I think, however" he added, "that nobody who's seen you in the last few days will ever believe you're a sociopath again – not even Donavan".

"Anderson will, though".

"Anderson's an idiot".

They laughed again, and John, despite dreading the conversation he was about to have with his sister, considered himself for this moment to be a very lucky man indeed.

When they arrived at the Yard, Sherlock made a point of thanking the PC, who was too shocked to answer and John bit back a laugh.

"Could you please take me to my sister?" he asked instead. The PC nodded, still staring at Sherlock.

"I'll just wait in Greg's office" the consulting detective announced, turning around with a dramatic swish of his coat, and John was strangely comforted by the thought that, no matter what the next half hour might bring, there would still be body parts in their fridge.

The PC brought him to the visiting room without delay and told him he wouldn't explain to Harry what happened, making John suspect that Greg had told him exactly what to do. They would definitely have to take their DI out to Angelo's again – maybe with Molly.

Harry was brought in by the PC, still looking angry.

"So, what happened? What about your mysterious lead? Are you just here out of a sense of duty, or did anything turn up?"

John swallowed, deciding to be nice to her, if only because he still felt slightly guilty and he had to give her bad news.

"We caught the murderer".

Her eyes widened. "Great! Why am I still here, then? Let's go!"

She turned around without waiting for an answer, and John cleared his throat.

"Harry... there is something you should know".

She turned around, obviously annoyed at having to stay longer at Scotland Yard than she had to.

"What?"

"The murderer. It was Violet Hunter".

He had expected her to be angry, to lash out. He hadn't expected her to grow quiet and seem to shrink.

"What?" she repeated in an unusually quiet voice. Then she shook her head, and an angry expression crossed her face. "Is this a joke? Or, because he couldn't get me, your live-in amateur decides to – " John didn't want to hear the end of this sentence, mainly because he wouldn't be able to hold his temper if she did finish it.

So he repeated in a voice that brooked no argument, "Violet Hunter. She was the killer." That made Harry go quiet again.

"But... she... why?"

There was no easy way to say this, so he didn't try to (Sherlock must really have influenced him). "She wanted to get back at you. She was... looking for you. The victim... she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. But Hunter cut herself with the knife she used to – she cut herself, so she couldn't plant that anywhere near you. Sherlock found out where it was hidden. When we arrived, she was already there. She tried to shoot Sherlock, but I managed to hit her in the shoulder... She'll make a full recovery, but she's under arrest. And will go to jail". He'd kept on his jacket so he wouldn't have to explain the bandage.

Harry swallowed and looked anywhere but at her brother. "So she... confessed?"

"Yes" John simply answered.

She nodded. "So I guess that's... that, then" she said, quietly, and he didn't know what she was talking about, but decided to bring her home first and deal with her shock later.

He took a deep breath. "You can, of course, go. I'll ask the PC to drive us to your flat, and we can..."

"No" she interrupted him, looking him straight in the eyes, an expression on her face that he'd never seen there before.

"No?" he asked, confused.

"No. I'll go home, yes, but you will be where you belong. With your friends."

"But Harry, I really think you need..."

She interrupted him again.

"No, John, please. I'm trying – for once – to do the selfless thing here." She laughed bitterly. "If this whole story has shown us something, it's that we just can't do family. So let me be. Let it be. Nothing lost, nothing gained, Johnny."

When she saw he was about to protest, she added, slowly, "Come on, be honest. You love me because I am your sister, but do you actually like me? As in, you would want to see me if we weren't related?"

He didn't know what to say. It was true, at the prospect of leaving Harry alone, he felt – sorry for her, but not as one would feel sorry for one's sister, more like one would feel sorry for an acquaintance. And then he realized that all guilt he'd been feeling had evaporated. Maybe when she'd started complaining about Sherlock's role in this case just now. Or when she'd been angry with him, even though it wasn't his fault. Or maybe he'd just deluded himself into thinking he felt guilty, because he ought to feel guilty, if he didn't feel anything else at the prospect of his sister going to jail.

Harry was right. There was nothing that tied the two of them together. So he nodded.

"It would maybe be for the best."

She smiled – a sad smile – and walked over to him. Squeezed his hand. "I'll call, from time to time. And maybe, now and then, we can meet for coffee. But let's not try to be a family. You have found yourself a family. Let me find one of my own".

Then, she was gone, without looking back, and he had to stay in the room for another few minutes before he could join Sherlock in Greg's office.

Harry was right. He'd found a family; a strange family, certainly – Sherlock, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mike, even Mycroft. But it was his family, nonetheless. He loved all of them more than he loved Harry – more than he'd ever loved Harry, maybe. He drew in a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face to get rid of a few tears that had escaped.

The end of one story, the beginning of another.

He walked slowly towards Greg's office.

Sherlock looked up when he came in, and knew everything, of course.

"Tell me what to say and I will say it" he said, looking for clues what to do in John's face.

John just smiled. "You just did, Sherlock, you just did. Let's go home."

Sherlock smiled back and the two made their way out and caught a cab.

The forensic techs had just about finished, and Violet Hunter was under constant supervision at the hospital. Greg, utterly relieved that the case was at an end, and happy that Sherlock's and John's friendship had proved to be even stronger than he would have thought, looked at his watch and saw that it was shortly after five pm.

He took out his phone and waited with a quickly beating heart for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Hello, Greg?" Molly answered, and he smiled.

"We have Violet Hunter. She's in hospital, but there'll be no lasting damage. John has a grazing shot on his left arm – nothing too serious. He and Sherlock are on their way to free Harry. I was just wondering... Would it be too early to go out for dinner?"

She laughed, a happy, relieved laugh, and his heart swelled. "That's wonderful news! I'll text John immediately." Then there was a pause, and he was just about to lose hope when she said, "No, it's not too early."

He grinned broadly and asked, "Should I pick you up at Bart's in, say half an hour?"

"That would be nice".

They said goodbye, he hung up and walked over to Sally. "Sally, can you finish her? There's – something I need to do."

"Sure, sir" she answered, and he started walking away when a thought occurred to him.

"By the way" he said, turning back around, "did Anderson find the bullet?"

"I'm afraid not, sir" she replied, such a strange mischievous light in his eyes that he started to suspect that the last few days had truly changed her thoughts about Sherlock – and that maybe she had... but that was a conversation for another day. So he just said "Never mind" accompanied by a wave of his hand, and went to his car to pick up Molly.

During the cab ride, John got two text messages. One was from Molly.

_Greg just called. I'm happy it's over. Give my love to Sherlock.  
Molly_

The other one was from Mike.

_Molly texted me. Congratulations to you both. Davey is going to be okay. He just has an ear infection.  
Mike_

John told Sherlock, who shook his head and muttered "Sentiment" but was smiling while doing it.

When Sherlock and John arrived at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them. "There you are!" she said happily. "Is everything alright again? Did you catch the killer?"

"Yes" John answered, smiling at Sherlock, "we did. I need a new shirt, though".

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, and John took off his jacket so she could see the bandage, because he knew she wouldn't let it go.

She shook her head. "You boys will be the death of me". Then her face lit up. "Oh, Sherlock, there is something waiting for you upstairs – a delivery man just brought it. Why don't you go up, and I'll make us tea?"

They knew that resistance was futile, so they went up, Sherlock fro once not knowing what to except and John being rather sure what it was.

As soon as Sherlock saw the box, his eyes started to sparkle. "John, Mycroft has actually already bought me a new violin!" He didn't pause to think why Mycroft knew he needed one; the fact that his old one wasn't there anymore – John wouldn't have thrown it away, and neither would Mrs. Hudson – was enough of an answer.

"That's great" John answered, going up to his room to changed, not wanting to let Sherlock know he was aware of it.

However, his best friend hadn't yet opened the box when he returned.

"Something wrong?"

Sherlock looked at him. "I wanted you to be there".

John smiled, and even he couldn't help but stare when Sherlock took out the instrument, although he didn't know a thing about violins. But it was beautiful. Shiny, polished, dark wood.

Sherlock smiled and drew the equally breathtaking bow over it. It sounded wonderful. Then he proceeded to examine the violin closely. When he turned it around to look at the back, his breath hitched.

"What is it?" John asked concerned.

Sherlock showed it to him without a word, but his eyes spoke volumes. John took it, very carefully, which made his friend smile, and saw the engraving Mycroft had had put on the back immediately.

_To Sherlock Holmes, from all his friends_

Sherlock looked at John. "Did you know?"

"I knew Mycroft would probably buy you a new one, so I told him to take a bit of money from my account – Greg later told me that he'd had the same idea, and that a few people had given him money, which he'd passed on to your brother."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, honestly curious. There were several people who could have given money, but he wasn't sure.

John smiled. "Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mike and Donovan. I think it's safe to say your brother paid the rest, though".

"Yes, I suppose it is" Sherlock answered, looking away, his voice suddenly a little croaky, and John grinned.

His best friend cleared his throat. "I'll try it, then?"

John beamed at him. "Yes, please. There's nothing I'd rather listen to right now".

Sherlock smiled, stood up and started playing one of his own compositions. As John looked at him, he knew there were things to come.

Soon, they would tease Molly and Greg about their relationship; they would bicker about body parts in the fridge and experiments on the kitchen table; they would solve cases; they would run right into danger because of it; Sherlock would thank Mycroft through a text; he would insist on playing a song for everyone who had helped to buy the new violin, Sally Donovan included, and they would never forget Anderson's face when he saw Sherlock play a piece of Beethoven's for her in the Yard; maybe John would slowly become friends with Harry; in a few minutes, they would have tea with Mrs. Hudson, who was, unbeknownst to them, already standing outside their flat, tea-tray in hand because she didn't want to interrupt Sherlock.

But right now, nothing of that mattered. This moment was perfect.

A moment of trust, a moment of friendship, a moment of happiness.

A moment just for the two of them.


End file.
